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THE QUIZZIOLOGY 






ft 



OF 



THE BRITISH DRAMA, 



COMPRISING 

L— STAGE PASSIONS. 
n.^-STAGE CHARACTERS. 
IIL— STAGE PLAYS. 



BY 



S 



GILBERT ABBOTT a BECKETT. 
















«> 



LONDON: 

PUBLISHED AT THE PUNCH OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET. 



MDCCCXLVI. 






LONDON: 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is, perhaps, no branch of our manufactures in 
which more skill and ingenuity are displayed than in 
the process employed by the British" dramatist. This 
industrious workman is a thorough mechanic, twisting 
the raw material of passion into a thousand shapes, 
spinning the yarn of sentiment, and weaving the web of 
interest ; producing by his labour a variety of stuff of 
different degrees of quality. The object of this little 
work is, 1 st, to describe the passions as they appear in 
many of our modern plays ; 2ndly, to show the charac- 
ters most in use by some of our dramatic authors ; and 
3rdly, to present examples of those passions and charac- 
ters in operation, through the medium of scenes supposed 
to be selected from the works of the most popular 
writers for the stage. 



IV 



INTRODUCTION. 



The incident of Mr. Webster, the lessee of the Hay- 
market Theatre, having liberally offered, two or three 

years ago, the sum of five hundred pounds for the best 
original comedy, has been taken advantage of to assume 
that the scenes in this collection would have been found 
in the comedies sent in by the writers whose initials are 
given : — a supposition that is only negatived by their 
not having sent in any comedies at all. 




THE QUIZZIOLOGY 



OF 



THE BRITISH DRAMA. 



THE STAGE PASSIONS. 

AN ODE FOR MELODRAMATIC MUSIC. 



^HEN Music, being all the rage, 
Usurp'd possession of the stage, 
The Passions, flying in a hurry, 
Took refuge at the Vic* and Surrey. 
Ranting, stamping, screaming, fainting, 
Faces chalking, corking, painting, 
By turns they bellow'd like the wind, 
And then to whisper had a mind, 
Till each resolved to act a part 
And give a spec 'men of his art. 
All display 'd, in half an hour, 
T^Sef / Idl^v ^ ^ as ^ e 0I> their expressive power. 

First Fear appeared, its skill to try, 

With shaking hand and trembling knees, 

* Vic, the title by which the patrons of the Victoria Theatre 
designate their favourite establishment. 

B 



THE STAGE PASSIONS. 

Raising a very comic cry, 
The Surrey gallery to please. 

Next Anger rush'd — 'tis Hicks, by Jove ! 

Loud thunder in his voice he hurls ; 
His superhuman rage to prove, 

He tears his long black worsted curls. 

And now doth wan Despair appear. 

He draws his breath — nor draws it mild, 
But fiercely asks the chandelier 

To give him back his only child. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes as bright 

As if in very sport of pain, 
The gas-man had laid on a light, 

From Pleasure's equitable main : 
(Though, where 's the company that yet 
Could boast of such a brilliant jet ? ) 
Young Hope begins a tuneful strain, — 

A strain she 's willing to prolong ; 
Indulging in it all again, 

If the kind gods encore the song. 
Though, if upon a second thought, 
They hint that she may " cut it short,' 
She curtsies with a solemn air, 
And looks the picture of Despair. 

No sooner had she sang, than, with a frown, 

Revenge, that heavy man, 
Stalk'd in, and cheering shouts of " Bravo, Brown ! " 

Throughout the audience ran. 
He gives the orchestra a withering look, 

He draws his blood-stain 'd sword, 



THE STAGE PASSIONS. c 

And growls, " I niark'd it in the leader's book, 

You know I want a chord." 
The orchestra wakes up at last, 

The double drums they beat, 
And the trombone gives a blast, 

Lengthening at least six feet. 
At every bar, Revenge, with measured stride, 
Perambulates the stage from side to side ; 
Then hides behind the door for some one comino* out, 
Who walks most unsuspectingly about, 
Follow 'd by dark Revenge, who very neatly 
Contrives to keep out of his sight completely ; 
Waiting an opportunity to see 
Revenge and Victim exeunt, both o. p. 

Next Jealousy approaches, beating flat, 

With passionate thumps, the crown of its own hat, — 

Now whining in a very love-sick tone ; 

Now showing hate in a long guttural groan. 

With eyes upraised and ringlets curling, 
Pale Melancholy — Mrs. Stirling — 
Came from the prompter's little seat 
Her lamentations to repeat, 
And while she pours her pensive cries 

On all the wings and flats around, 
There is an echo in the flies, 

That seems to mock the mournful sound. 
Through box and pit the plaintive accents stole, 

Hung o'er the orchestra with fond delay, 
Through the house a charm diffusing, 
The sound not e'en the gallery losing, 

Till in the slips it dies away. 

b2 



THE STAGE PASSIONS. 

But oh ! we have at last a sprightlier tone, 

When Cheerfulness, of motley-coloured hue, 
Comes with that speech which Mirth has made its own, 

Exclaiming, " Here we are !" or " How d'ye do ?" 
Rolling its eyes and putting out its tongue, 

That trick to Mathews * and to Barry dear, 
By whom the festive somersault is flung, 

In pantomimic glory every year. 
For Cheerfulness is often led 
To stand awhile upon its head, 
Raised on a sort of fragile pole, 
While squibs and crackers round it roll ; 
Its gay career concluding every night 
In Fairy Land, or in the realms of light, 
Made by red fire celestially bright. 



Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, 

In a ballet group advancing ; 
For delight, without denial, 

May be best express 'd in dancing. 
Round and round and round they go, 

Shepherds in their satin smalls ; 
Nymphs in stiff glazed calico, 

Making pretty groups with shawls. 
Every feature wears a smile, 

Through the bright vermilion gleaming, 
Perspiration all the while, 

Down the happy features streaming. 
There is no remedy on earth, 

As a cure for dreary vapours, 

* Mathews and Barry, two stage clowns, who both allege that 
Grimaldi's mantle has devolved upon them. We should recommend 
their tearing the mantle in two, and thus splitting the difference. 



THE STAGE PASSIONS. 

That can boast of half the worth 
Of the Corps-de- Ballet 's capers ! 

Oh, Garriek, Kemble, Siddons, Kean — 
The father, not the son, I mean — 
Why are to ns such men denied ? - 
Why is the drama laid aside ? 
Now from those lofty patent domes, 
Where once you found congenial homes, 
Your mimic art has disappear 'd, 
And music's sounds alone are heard. 
Where is your histrionic art ? 
Ask JuUien's advertising cart. 
Arise, as in the elder time, 
When acting used to be sublime ; 
Your wonders in that glorious age 
Were with the public all the rage. 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
The drama still would more prevail, 
Has more attraction, done with skill, 
Is fitted more a house to fill, 
Than could be altogether found 
In worlds of mingled show and sound. 




STAGE CHARACTERS. 




an, in his relation to the boards 
of a minor theatre, is a very 
wonderful animal. Curious, in- 
deed, are the creatures that 
breathe the dramatic air, and 
inhabit the set pieces of scenic 
life, ranging the canvass woods, 
and sauntering in the practicable 
groves, listening to the warbling 
woodlark in the band, or being summoned to the field 
of glory by a trumpeter standing at the side scenes. 
Man, in this state, defies the sagacity of the ingenious 
Pritchard, who flies flabbergasted from the contem- 
plation of a being so utterly subversive of all the usual 
theories. 

Perhaps the habit of holding the mirror up to nature, 
may account for the upside-downishness which is so often 
met with in a dramatist's view of humanity ; for let the 
reader seize a dressing-glass — which is more convenient 
than a mirror — and hold it up to the ceiling — which is 
more come-at-able than nature — and the reflection will 
puzzle him as to whether he is on his head or his heels. 
His writing-table will appear sticking to the roof of the 
apartment ; the lamp in the centre of his room will seem 
to be standing on the floor ; and his fire will be blazing 
away over, instead of underneath, his chimney-piece. 
This practice, therefore, of holding up a mirror to any- 



THE STAGE SEAMAN. 



thing, is calculated to throw an air of topsyturviness over 
the ohject reflected ; and thus, as it has heen just observed, 
may the bouleversement of human nature by the minor 
dramatist be at once accounted for. 




I.— THE STAGE SEAMAN. 



Perhaps there is no finer illustration of the preceding 
remarks than the theatrical tar, or British seaman, whose 
total variation from all other seamen, British as well as 
foreign, causes him to stand alone ; though, by-the-bye, 
the power of standing alone is shared by the skittle, the 
noun substantive, and a variety of other articles that the 
imagination soon gets crowded with. 

The British seaman, as he used to be according to 
the 25th of George the Second, and as he is according 
to the license of the Lord Chamberlain, tells everybody 
he meets to " Belay, there ; ' which we find, by a refer- 
ence to a dictionary of sea-terms, is making a rope fast by 
turns round a pin or coil without hitching or seizing it. 
He calls his legs his timbers, though timbers, in nautical 
language, mean ribs ; and he is continually requesting 
that they may be shivered. He is always either on 
terms of easy familiarity with his captain, or particularly 
mutinous ; and is often in love with the same young lady 
as his superior officer, whom, in consequence of their 
affections clashing, he generally cuts down to a mere hull, 
as he technically expresses it. He calls every elderly 
person a grampus, and stigmatises as a land-lubber every 
individual whose pursuits do not happen to be nautical. 
When at sea, though only a common sailor, the stage 
tar is the most important personage in the vessel ; and 



8 



THE STAGE SEAMAN. 



the captain frequently retires to the side of the ship — 
sitting, probably, on a water-barrel — in order to leave 
the entire deck at the service of the tar, while he indulges 
in a naval hornpipe. The dramatic seaman usually wears 
patent leather pumps and silk stockings, when on active 
service ; and, if we are to believe what he says, he is in 
the habit of sitting most unnecessarily on the main top- 
gallant in a storm at midnight, for the purpose of thinking 
of Polly. When he fights, he seldom condescends to 
engage less than three at a time ; and if the action has 
been general a moment before, he has the field all to 
himself, as if by general consent, directly he evinces any 
disposition for a combat. 

If there is a battle, he wins it personally, without the 
aid of anybody else ; and he treats the admiral as if he 
were a mere cipher, — as in fact he is, for he generally 
comes in, when all is over, at the head of his staff, to 
promote the British seaman, and to tell him that his 
country owes him a debt of everlasting gratitude. If 
the tar is a married man, he invariably leaves his Polly 
without the means of paying her rent ; and when he 
returns, he generally finds her rejecting the dishonour- 
able proposals of a man in possession, who is making 
advances either on his own account or as the agent of a 
libertine landlord. In these cases the British seaman 
pays out the execution with a very large purse heavily 
laden at both ends, which he indignantly flings at the 
shark, as he figuratively describes the broker's man, who 
goes away without counting the money or giving any 
receipt for it. The stage-tar sometimes carries papers in 
his bosom, which, as he cannot read, he does not know 
the purport of ; and though he has treasured them up, 
he has never thought it worth while to get anybody to 



THE STAGE LADIES'-HAID. 9 

look at them ; but he generally pulls them out in the 
very nick of time, in the presence of some old nobleman, 
who glances at them, and exclaims, " My long-lost son ! " 
at the same time expanding his arms for the tar to rush 
into. Sometimes he carries a miniature, and finds in 
some titled dame a mother to match it, or pulls up the 
sleeve of his jacket and shows a stain of port- wine upon 
his arm, which establishes his right to some very extensive 
estates, and convicts a conscience-stricken steward of a 
long train of villanies. At the close of his exploits it is 
customary to bring in the union-jack (nobody knows why 
it is introduced or where it comes from), and to wave it 
over his head, to the air of " Rule Britannia." 



II.— THE STAGE LADIES'-MAID. 



The explorer of human nature, who digs into the 
drama as a mine in which character may be discovered, 
will frequently turn up a quantity of material that he 
will find much difficulty in accounting for. To pursue 
the simile of the mine — there cannot, perhaps, be a 
more extraordinary spade-full than that very singular 
lump of clay whose denomination forms the title to the 
present article. 

Though all the world is generally admitted to be a 
stage, it is fortunate that all the ladies '-maids in the 
world are not stage ladies '-maids ; for if they were, there 
would be an end to all domestic discipline in every 
house where a ladies '-maid might happen to form a part 
of the establishment. 

A most striking peculiarity in the position of the 
Stage Ladies'-maid is the ascendancy she immediately 



10 



THE STAGE LADIES -MAID. 



gains over every one in the house she may have 
got admission into. The only person she condescends 
to patronise is her young mistress, whom however she 
never assists in anything but a love affair ; but that 
even is beneath her notice, unless it is clandestine, and 
terminates in an elopement, which she insists on having 
the entire conduct of. She permits no scruples of 
delicacy or propriety on the part of her young lady ; 
who, by-the-bye, seldom expresses any stronger senti- 
ment of self-respect than such as may be implied in the 
words, " Really, Betty, I tremble at the step I am 
about to take ; " when the ingenious interrogatory of 
" Lor ! Miss, what's the use ?" from the Stage Ladies'- 
maid, at once removes any feeling of compunction by 
which the stage young lady may for a moment have 
been influenced. There is generally a struggle going 
on in the mind of the latter between duty and affection, 
when the casting vote is demanded from the Stage 
Ladies '-maid, who black-balls duty at once, and gives a 
plumper for disobedience. The Stage Ladies '-maid 
nevertheless receives bribes from the representative of 
the duty interest, namely the heavy man, who is paid 
thirty shillings a-week for doing the "respectable utility, ' 
and talks of having just dined with the minister. 
While, however, she gains a knowledge of the heavy 
man's plans, and accepts from him at every interview 
a heavy purse filled with gallery checks, as a reward for 
her exertions in his behalf, the Stage Ladies'-maid is 
urging her young mistress to rush into the threadbare 
arms of a half-pay captain, who makes love to her by 
whistling up at the window, following her into the Park, 
kissing her maid, and practising other elegant little arts 
which military men — on the stage — are ordinarily ad- 



THE STAGE LADIES'-MAID. 11 

dieted to. Perhaps, however, the most curious portion 
of the Stage Ladies-maid's conduct is her treatment of 
the master of the house, whom she keeps in a state of 
continual subjection, by an uninterrupted course of 
insult and violence. She ordinarily addresses him as 
an " old hunks," shakes her fist in his face, and thrusts 
his hat and cane into his hand, — all the while pushing him 
towards the door, — when she has any purpose to serve 
by getting rid of him. If he begins to talk, she talks 
him down, so that he can only splutter and say, 
" Whew ! but he never thinks of either giving her a 
month's warning, or paying her wages, and sending her 
about her business. The Stage Ladies'-maid has no 
idea of leaving the drawing-room when visitors are 
present, and often remains in it alone to sing a song 
with Swiss variations, which must be heard all over the 
house, to the great disturbance of the family. In dress 
she always excels her mistress, and frequently wears 
very thin white muslin over pink satin, and an apron with 
pockets of very recherche embroidery. 

In conclusion, she generally marries somebody because 
"she don't see why she shouldn't do as her young 
mistress does.' She sometimes unites herself to a 
low comic countryman, whom she has been snubbing all 
through the piece, but who, when he has a chance of 
being accepted, looks like a great fool, and says, " Well, 
I doant noa : thou beest woundypratty ; " which is at once 
clutched at as an offer of marriage by the Stage Ladies'- 
maid, who sings a couplet, or speaks a "tag," makes a 
curtsey before the fall of the curtain, and retires to her 
dressing-room, without saying a word to the low-comic 
countryman, with whom she has just promised to share 
the remainder of her existence. 



III.— THE STAGE COUNTRYMAN. 



If a select committee were appointed to inquire into 
the state of the rural population, and a Stage Countryman 
were to be examined with the view of collecting facts 
relating to the rustic character, the select committee 
would be sorely puzzled to know what to make of it. 

In the first place, the costume of the Stage Country- 
man is arranged with an eye to the picturesque rather 
than the practical. He frequently wears a very light 
sky-blue coat, with a waistcoat of the gayest chintz, as 
if somebody had given him a window curtain, and he had 
been seized with the heureuse idee of having a vest made 
out of it. He has dark-blue stockings, which are made 
of silk if he is the first countryman, but are ordinarily of 
grey worsted if he is only one of a party of rustics getting 
in the harvest, or assisting at a village festival. By 
the way, the dramatic mode of getting in the harvest 
consists in tossing about a truss of straw with property 
rakes at the back of the stage, and then coming forward 
to the front to sing a chorus. Village festivities are 
also of a very mild description in their theatrical form, 
and comprise little more than the luxury of sitting on a 
bench outside an alehouse door, holding in one hand a 
tin cup filled up above the brim with wool, which is 
occasionally raised to the lips, in accordance with some 
complimentary allusion to John Barleycorn. 

To return, however, to the costume of the Stage 
Countryman : — The remainder is made up of a red wig 
and a hooked stick, with a small bundle slung across it, 
and a pair of dancing-pumps, in which he is always pre- 



THE STAGE COUNTRYMAN. 1 



n 



pared to walk to London, for the purpose of righting 
"poor sisther Phoebe," or telling the "great squire" 
that he (the Stage Countryman) has got " feelins like," 
and that he (the Stage Countryman) is as good a " mon " 
as he (the squire) : " thof he (the squire) have gotten a 
fine coat on his back" — a home truth which sometimes 
throws the squire into a state of pitiable penitence about 
something or other which there is no proof of his having 
been guilty of. 

Though the dramatic rustic is vividly alive to any 
wrong, real or imaginary, inflicted on his own sister, he 
is often, as far as his own treatment of the fair sex is 
concerned, little better than a domestic ruffian. He is 
either contemptibly soft, accepting as a wife some village 
coquette, who has been declined on account of her 
flirting propensities, by some former lover, or he is 
brutally hard, refusing to fulfil the vows he has plighted 
to some unfortunate village girl, and setting the yard 
dog at her if she persists in pursuing him. 

The occupations of the Stage Countryman are usually 
of the very vaguest character. He appears to have 
nothing on earth to do but to avenge his sister for some 
wrongs not very clearly made out, bully the landlord 
about " fearther," who is a most unpunctual old man in 
the payment of his rent, flirt with village maidens, grow 
sentimental about poor old " mither," and " dom " the 
young squire. 

The Stage Countryman is a character fast disappearing 
from the drama, and the only rusticity now introduced 
into theatrical pieces is confined to a Yorkshire servant, 
who seems to be retained in a house for the mere pur- 
pose of misunderstanding every order he receives, and 
grossly insulting every visitor of the family. 



IV.— THE STAGE NEGRO. 



The character of the Negro, as exhibited on the stage, 
is a strange compound of physical and moral singularities, 
that are well worthy the attention of the student of 
human nature in its dramatic, which is certainly its 
most astounding form. The Stage Negro seems to be 
deeply imbued with the beauties of the British Consti- 
tution, and is constantly indulging in sentiments of 
gratitude towards England, that must be delightful to 
the ears of the most patriotic native of our highly- 
favoured isle. The Stage Negro is continually running 
about in an ecstasy of delight at the reflection, that, 
"dreckly him put him foot on British groun, him free 
as de air, free as Massa himself:" an announcement 
which is usually followed up in an early scene by the 
Negro receiving a variety of cuffs or kicks, (in which, 
by-the-bye, he seems to delight,) from some of the other 
characters in the drama. Sometimes the Stage Negro 
grows sentimental, and asks, in reference to some cruel 
practical joke that has been played upon him, " Whether 
him not a man and a brother? for though him face 
black as him coal, him heart white as him lily." The 
old constitution-loving and sentiment- spluttering Stage 
Nigger is, however, rapidly disappearing from the stage ; 
and we get, in these days, very few of those cutting 
allusions to the traffic in slaves, and those tender appeals 
to the equality of the human race, which were the charm 
of the dramatic negroes of our infancy. The Stage 
Negro has become a vulgar dancing brute, with a banjo 



THE STAGE NEGRO. 15 

in his hand, and without a bit of sentiment at his heart ; 
a wretch constantly jumping about, wheeling about, and 
turning about, but wholly devoid of that solemn admira- 
tion for the British Constitution and for the liberating 
influence of the sands at Margate, or the shino-les at 
Dover, which we once used to hear with a feelino- of 
pride at being natives of a land that admitted of so 
much puffing on the part of our dramatists. The Stage 
Negro of the present day can only indulge in frivolous 
allusions to Miss Lucy Long, Coal Black Rose, and 
other light characters, or call upon some imaginary indi- 
vidual, of the name of Josey, to Jim along — a process 
that we are utterly at a loss to form any conception of. 

Thus much for the moral attributes of the Stage 
Negro, whose physical peculiarities remain, for the most 
part, unchanged ; and to these we can, therefore, turn 
our attention, without any feeling of disappointment at 
the alteration which has occurred in the intellectual 
character. The Stage Negro still exhibits that remark- 
able peculiarity of the skin, which is shown bv the dark 
colour generally finishing abruptly at the wrist, the 
hand being perfectly the same as that of one of the 
white population. The variety of hues is also very 
remarkable ; for while the arm is of the colour of a 
black worsted stocking, the face is somewhat less 
opaque ; and, indeed, it would appear that Nature dealt 
for her blacking with two different manufacturers, trying 
Warren for the limbs, and using Day and Martin for the 
features of the Stage Neo-ro. 



V.— THE STAGE SUPERNUMERARY. 




las! there is not in the range of 
dramatic character a more striking 
instance of the weakness of thea- 
trical human nature, than is pre- 
sented by the Supernumerary, whose 
career, from the last bar of the 
overture to the speaking of the 
"tag" is one continued course of 
feeble-minded vacillation, abject 
subservience, or abominable trea- 
chery. He is led away by a bit 
of bombast from any ranting hero who will ask him if 
he is a man, or a Briton, or a Roman, or whether the 
blood of his ancestors runs through his recreant veins ; 
and he will agree, at a moment's notice, to take part in 
any desperate enterprise. He will appear at one moment 
as the friend of freedom, dressed in green baize, pointing 
with a property sword to the sky borders, and joining some 
twenty others in an oath to rid his country of the tyrant : 
but he will be found five minutes afterwards rigged out in 
cotton velvet as a seedy noble in the suite of the very iden- 
tical tyrant. He will swear allegiance to the House of 
Hapsburg, at half-past seven, and by the time the second 
price comes in, he will be marching as one of a select 
party of the friends of freedom who have taken an oath 
to roll the House of Hapsburg in the dust. Perhaps, 
like a perfidious villain as he is, he will be carrying a 
banner inscribed with the words, " Down with the op- 
pressor," on one side, while on the other — which he keeps 



THE STAGE SUPERNUMERARY. 17 

artfully out of sight in order to hide his treachery from the 
audience — are emblazoned the arms of the House of 
Hapsburg, of which the alleged oppressor is the chief. 
On the field of battle the conduct of the Stage Super- 
numerary is contemptible in the extreme, for he either 
falls down before he is hit, or takes a mean advantage 
of a fallen foe by striking an attitude, with his foot 
resting on the chest of one of the vanquished enemy* 

Sometimes the Supernumerary gives himself up from 
seven until ten to a reckless career of crime, carousing in 
a canvass cave, or plundering pasteboard caravans, except 
at intervals during the evening, when, perhaps, to swamp 
the voice of conscience, he drinks half-and-half in the 
dressing-room, with his wicked accomplices. The face 
of the Supernumerary generally shows the traces of a 
long career of crime and burnt cork ; nor is there a 
feature upon which remorse or rouge has not committed 
ravages. He frequently has his arms and legs bare, 
but, as if he had shrunk within himself, his skin or 
fleshing is frequently too large for him, and forms folds 
of a most extraordinary kind at the joints of his knees 
or elbows. Sometimes his chest is left bare, and his 
skin, as far as the neck, appears to be of a rich orange 
colour ; but the throat, which is cut off, as it were, by 
a distinct line, is of a different shade altogether. Some- 
times, when the scene is laid in India, the Supernumerary 
has his skin tied on to him, from which it would seem 
to be a theatrical theory that the darkness of colour pe- 
culiar to the negro race is owing to the use of leggings 
and waistcoats of black worsted. 

The Stage Supernumerary is something like the an- 
telope in his facility of descending precipices, and he 
will make his way with the greatest ease among rocks 

c 



18 



THE STAGE PRINCE. 



that appear inaccessible. He will come from the very 
highest mountain-pass in two or three minutes, and he 
undertakes needless difficulty by going a roundabout way 
and traversing the same ground several times over ; 
though he knows that the remotest peak is not a minute's 
walk from the footlights. 

Though the Stage Supernumerary is frequently a 
ruffian while upon the scene, he is exceedingly harmless 
and humble directly he gets to the wing, when he is glad 
to creep into any quiet corner to avoid being ordered out 
of the way by the prompter, tumbled over by the call- 
boy, and sworn at as well as knocked down with a blow 
from a flat by one or two of the carpenters. 



VI.— THE STAGE PRINCE. 



Royalty, on the stage, is usually very unfortunate, and 
the treatment it receives is, under even the most fa- 
vourable circumstances, anything but what it ought to 
be. If the stage monarch is in the height and plenitude 
of his power, there is very little respect shown to him. 
He has to march about in processions with a pasteboard 
crown on his head, while the royal ermine is nothing 
better than flannel with tufts of worsted fastened on to 
it. As to his palace, though the walls are finely painted, 
there is scarcely one room that he can comfortably sit 
down in, for the apartments are usually as barren of 
furniture as if a distress for rent had recently cleared 
them. If he gives a banquet, there is nothing to eat but 
a quantity of artificial flowers in vases, and some imi- 
tation fruit, moulded all in one piece on a papier mdche 



THE STAGE PRINCE. 



19 



plateau ; so that, if the fruit were eatable, the plate of 
which it forms a part would have to be devoured with it. 
The stage monarch has generally very little to say, and 
perches himself quietly on a very uncomfortable throne 
raised on a ricketty platform, with scarcely room for his 
feet ; while some individuals, turning their backs upon 
his Majesty, amuse themselves with dancing. He is 
frequently sworn at, and imperatively ordered by the 
stage-manager, who is a viceroy over him, to get down 
from his throne, that it may be dragged off at the wing 
by the scene-shifters just before the fete concludes, when 
the monarch sneaks in anvwhere anions; the crowd of 
supernumeraries who constitute his " people." 

His snubbed Majesty feels that he shall interfere with 
some Terpsichorean grouping, or destroy the final tableau 
of a pas de deux, if he does not get out of the way ; 
and he keeps backing and backing, until some of his 
court, irritated perhaps by the pressure of the royal 
heels on their plebeian corns, check his further retreat 
with — " Xow then, stupid ! where are you coming to ? " 
But the stage monarch is not always a mere nonentity, 
for he sometimes takes a very active part, and developes 
some very remarkable traits of character. If he happens 
to be a king after the pattern of him known familiarly 
as the " merry monarch,' though in reality a verv sad 
dog, he gets into tavern rows, flirts with the barmaid, 
cheats the landlord, insults the guests, and is on the 
point of being subjected to merited chastisement, when 
some tradesman of the court — perhaps the milkman, or 
the butcher— recognises the King, from which it must be 
inferred that his Majesty is in the habit of personally 
taking in the milk, or ordering the meat for dinner. If 
the dramatists can take liberties even with royalty moulded 

c2 



20 THE STAGE PRINCE. 

on the model of an English sovereign, it may be sup- 
posed that they will run into considerable rampancy 
when picturing one of the monarchs in miniature that 
are supposed to swarm on the Continent. 

A foreign princedom standing like a suburban villa in 
its own grounds, with cavalry barracks for six horses, a 
large roomy outhouse for infantry, and the use of a 
paddock for an occasional review, may admit of consi- 
derable latitude in the way of dramatic treatment, for 
no one knows whether it is right or wrong ; and it may 
be, therefore, perfectly en regie for the small fry of 
sovereigns to do the sort of things that on the stage we 
find them doing. Thus it may be very natural for an 
Italian prince to go away from his dominions, leaving 
the government in the hands of a younger brother or an 
uncle, who spreads a report of the death of the " right- 
ful heir,' when the "rightful heir " might settle the 
business with the " wrongful heir " by simply coming 
forward. He, however, prefers sneaking about the out- 
skirts of a forest, with one " trusty retainer," and falling 
in love with the daughter of some dealer in firewood, 
who comes home every evening to talk sentiment about 
his child, after having been employed all day in felling 
timber that does not belong to him. 

The Stage Prince, when he does make up his mind to 
claim his rights, issues no proclamation ; but muffles 
himself up in an enormous cloak that he may not be 
known, and arrives in his own territories during some 
fete that is being given by the "wrongful heir" to 
celebrate the feast of the grottos, (qucere, oyster-day ?) 
or anything else which makes a line in the play-bill and 
admits of an incidental ballet. The "rightful heir" 
keeps judiciously in the background during the dancing, 



! THE STAGE PRINCE. 21 

and the " wrongful heir ' eves him without knowings 
why ; and in the intervals of the festivities comes mys- 
teriously forward to tell the orchestra that " he don't 
know how it is, but something seems to weigh at his 
heart ;' and he will occasionally inquire politely of 
Conscience when it will allow peace to enter the guilty 
breast, from which it has hitherto been a prohibited 
article. He will ever and anon eve the "rightful heir ' 
with a suspicion for which he — or any one else — cannot 
account ; and ultimately he will make some observation 
from which the stranger in the cloak will dissent ; and 
high words will ensue, in which the " rightful heir " 
will be addressed as "Caitiff!" and asked by what 
right he interrupts the festival. Every one will gather 
round, but no one will know the " rightful heir," until, 
throwing off his cloak, he developes a blaze of orders, 
including a terrific freemason's star and a quantity of orna- 
ments in paste, that he has purchased from having seen 
them ticketed up " Cheap" at a pawnbroker's. 

The discovery of the orders, accompanied by a sudden 
throwing off of the hat, will cause all to go down on their 
knees, the courtiers exclaiming "Sire!" the female 
peasants murmuring out "the Prince," and turning 
round to each other with "My gracious!" "Only 
think ! " " Did you ever ! " <fcc, in a series of facetious 
asides; while the male peasants shout " Our long-lost 
lord ! The supernumeraries, who can only be intrusted 
with a single word, cry simply " Sire! " and the dis- 
comfited "wrongful heir," covering his face in shame, 
and leaving the blushes to mantle under his cloak, 
mutters out "My liege!" while the chorus-singers 
burst into a concluding strain of joy, love, and loyalty. 



VII.— THE STAGE LOVER. 



The passion of love developes itself on the stage in 
various ways, and every different species of dramatic 
production has a peculiar kind of Stage Lover. The 
tragedy lover is addicted to the very inconvenient practice 
of loving above his station ; and he is continually going 
about asking the woods, the groves, the valleys, and the 
hills why he was " lowly born ;' a question which the 
said woods, groves, valleys, and hills are not in the habit 
of answering. He usually rushes to the wars, and comes 
home with a colonel's commission ; bragging that he 
has crushed the haughty Ottomite, or rolled the auda- 
cious Libyan in the dust of his native desert. In I 
consequence of this crushing and rolling he offers his 
hand with confidence to the high-born maid, who had 
previously spurned him from her foot ; and he generally 
chooses the occasion of a banquet given in. honour of her 
intended marriage to somebody else as the most fitting 
opportunity for popping the question. Having succeeded 
in his suit he frequently sets out to crush some more 
Ottomites, or roll the audacious Libyan in some more 
dust, when he allows himself to be made very jealous by 
anonymous letters, and he abruptly leaves the army to 
lead itself, in order that he may go home and tax his 
wife with her infidelity. On arriving chez lui the tragedy 
lover not unfrequently finds his wife engaged in conver- 
sation with her own brother, who won't say he is her 
brother, but prefers fighting a duel with the tragedy 
lover ; and the latter returns to his wife with a fatal 
wound, just in time to die in her arms, which sends her 



THE STAGE LOVER. 23 

raving mad ; while the brother, in a fit of remorse, 
commits suicide. 

The operatic lover bears some resemblance to the 
lover we have just disposed of ; though he usually con- 
fines his violence to tearing up marriage contracts, 
stamping on the bits, shaking his fist in his rival's 
face, and rushing out with a drawn sword, shrieking as 
he makes his exit, to the highest pitch of his falsetto. 
When the course of his love happens to run tolerably 
smooth, he indulges in poetical declarations of his affec- 
tion, which he compares to a variety of objects, in a strain 
resembling the following : — 

Like to the golden orb of day, 

Which sets upon the main ; 
Going awhile at night away, 

And coming back again. 
Or like the little polar star, 

That guides the ship at sea : 
The constant friend of ev'ry tar — 

Such is my love for thee. 

A beacon to a fainting crew, 

To point the way to land ; 
A drop of precious mountain dew 

On Afric's burning sand 
The avalanche which ne'er can fall, 

Wherever it may be, 
Without its overwhelming all — 

Such is my love for thee. 

The lover of the ballet belongs to quite another class. 
He usually expresses his affection by pirouettes ; and 
having heard that it is love which makes the world go 
round, he thinks probably that his spinning may be taken 
as a proof of his sincerity. The lover in the ballet 




24 THE STAGE L0VEK. 



» 



evinces his affection very frequently by allowing the 
object of his choice to drop into his arms with one of her 
legs in the air, or to fall suddenly with all her weight 
into his open hand, while he, supported on only one 
knee, bears the burden with a smile, though every muscle 
is on the strain, and it costs him the most intense exer- 
tion to maintain his equilibrium. The lovers in a ballet 
are generally torn apart by the rude hands of parents, 
who however wait for the conclusion of a pas de deux 
before they interpose their authority, which they take 
care to exercise within proper Terpsichorean limits — 
always giving the young couple time to fall into a grace- 
ful attitude, and receive whatever applause the public 
may seem disposed to bestow on it. 

The comedy lover goes by the technical name of the ] 
"walking gentleman/' a title probably derived from his 
always having his hat in his hand, as if he would shortly 
have to walk off at the instigation of some unreasonable 
father or testy guardian. The comedy lover is very 
much addicted to ducks and dissatisfaction, wearing 
white trousers in all weathers, and finding fault upon all 
occasions with the object of his choice, without any reason 
for doing so. If the lady is in good spirits, the following 
is the sort of speech the comedy lover will address to 
her: — "Nay, Laura, I do not like this gaiety. The 
volatile head bespeaks the hollow heart ; and if you 
would smile on me to-day, you might bestow your sun- 
shine on another to-morrow. Believe me, Laura, that 
though we may admire the gadfly for its wings, we shall 
never seek it for its society ; and though we may chase 
the butterfly for its colours, we cherish the canary for 
its constancy. You weep, Laura — nay, I did not mean 
to distress you, though I had rather bring tears from I 



THE STAGE LOVER. 25 

your eyes than allow levity to remain at your heart ; for 
steadiness of character is a brighter gem than the most 
glittering gew-gaw. I will leave you now, Laura, and 
remember, that even should fate divide us, you have no 
truer friend than Arthur Turniptop." 

The farce lover is the lowest in the dramatic scale, for 
he is not unfrequently a scamp, and it would sometimes 
be difficult to distinguish him from a swindler. He is 
usually wholly destitute of means, and quite averse to 
any respectable occupation. He seldom enters a house 
like a gentleman, but sneaks in by the assistance of a 
pert and dishonest maid, or comes like a thief over a 
garden wall, or through an open window. If the master 
of the house should be heard approaching, the farce lover 
gets under the table, or crams himself into a cupboard 
already full of crockery, some of which he begins to break 
as if to make his place of concealment known to the " old 
man,' who, instead of going at once to ascertain the 
cause, walks away to fetch a blunderbuss, a red-hot 
poker, or some other equally murderous instrument, which 
he would certainly be hanged for making effective use of. 
While he is gone the farce lover takes the opportunity 
of leaping from the window, instead of quietly going out 
at the door, and the * ' old man, ' after threatening to 
fire into the cupboard, bursts it open, and concludes 
that, as there is no one there, a mouse must have made 
all the noise, and done all the mischief. The farce lover 
usually parts from the object of his affections with great 
spirit and vivacity, although he has just before been 
lisping out something very sentimental about fate pre- 
senting " inthuperable obthtacles " to his union. 



VIIL— THE STAGE ASSASSIN. 



Never having had the privilege of an acquaintance 
with a real assassin — a distinction which, if he happens 
to be caught and condemned, is in these days apparently 
much coveted — we are unable to say whether the assas- 
sin of the stage bears a reasonable resemblance to the 
genuine article. We regret, however, to find that the 
old original Stage Assassin is fast fading away, and is 
almost entirely superseded in the dramatic world by a 
smooth-faced sort of villain, who is recognised by the 
patrons of the theatres " over the water," as the hero of 
domestic tragedy. We confess we have a preference for 
the " fine old Stage Assassin, all of the olden time , ' — the 
regular minor melodramatic murderer, with a voice hoarse 
from an accumulation of colds supposed to have been 
caught in a long course of crime carried on at midnight, 
among cut woods and canvass caverns. We prefer his 
ample crop of black worsted, falling in raven ringlets 
half-way down his back, to the hair of the modern Stage 
Assassin, whose locks are "gracefully curled" like the 
celebrated little volume of smoke in the old song of the 
Woodpecker. The head-dress of the former is charac- 
teristic of the dark thoughts that are passing through 
the wearer's brain, but the latter 's well Macassared hair 
confounds the distinctions between innocence and guilt ; 
for if the assassin can have recourse to a cut and curl, 
how are we to know and beware of him ? Is it not 
enough to make us start back in horror from the wax 
heads in the barbers' windows, and to look with suspicion 
on the innocent shop-boy or clerk, who having just paid 






THE STAGE ASSASSIN. 27 

his monthly sixpence for having his hair cut, has under- 
gone the operation of the irons because there is no extra 
charge, and he likes to get as much as he can for his 
money ? 

The old Stage Assassin is however not quite extinct ; 
and ere he vanishes altogether we will paint him in his 
true colour. As that colour happens to be particularly 
black, we cannot have anything more appropriate than 
ink to paint with. The face of the Stage Assassin is 
ploughed up with enormous furrows, to add no doubt to 
the harrowing nature of his aspect. His forehead has 
as many lines running across it as a Grand Junction 
Railway ; and burnt cork, the theatrical substitute for 
care, has traced a long train of guilt from one terminus 
to the other of his countenance. His cheeks are blanched 
with that chalk which on the stage does the work of con- 
science, and his eyes are blackened by that want of men- 
tal repose which Indian ink so effectually indicates. 
The career of the Stage Assassin affords a curious illus- 
tration of the rapidity with which a downward course 
of guilt is accomplished. He enters without having 
any murderous object, when chance throws him in the 
way of a wicked nobleman who wants to get rid of a good 
nobleman, on account of some family feud between their 
respective ancestors in a former century. The wicked 
nobleman seldom makes any proposal in specific terms, 
but the Stage Assassin is very apt ; and a few winks, a 
groan or two, some exclamations about scotching a snake, 
followed up by the exhibition of an enormous purse, with 
a little whispering into the Stage Assassin's ear, are quite 
sufficient to furnish him with the particulars of the task 
he is about to enter upon. 

Having become acquainted with the person of his con- 



28 THE STAGE ASSASSIN. 

templated victim, the Stage Assassin is constantly at his 
heels, but never gets near enough to despatch him— and 
generally comes on exclaiming, " Ha ! he turns into the 
wood ; he goes across the copse ; now yon thicket shades 
him ; he emerges from the wood ; again he 's out of j 
sight ! Curses on him, he has eluded me this time ; " I 
— and the Stage Assassin immediately steals off in an ! 
opposite direction to that which the victim is supposed to I 
have taken. Sometimes the Stage Assassin succeeds in 
getting close behind the good nobleman without being 
seen, when it is usual for him to go through sundry evo- 
lutions with his dagger, each of which is more difficult 
than to kill the intended victim at once ; but this super- 
fluous foolery is kept up till the latter turns abruptly 
round, and the Stage Assassin — managing to conceal his 
weapon — makes a most obsequious bow to the good noble- 
man, who walks coolly out as if nothing had happened, 
while the assassin follows with a variety of threatening 
gestures. 

It sometimes happens that the victim is caught in a 
storm on the borders of his own estate, when he turns 
into a wretched hovel to pass the night on a Windsor 
chair, with his arm arranged as a bolster for his head, 
which he reposes on a little round kitchen tea-table. 
The Stage Assassin usually contrives to come to the 
window, which he opens gently in the first instance, but 
after looking in, he suddenly slams it violently with a 
noise which is echoed by an enormous drum ; and the 
victim, waking up, looks round in every direction but 
the right, and, making a casual observation on high 
winds, he goes off to sleep again. The Stage Assassin 
looks again through the window, and contrives to enter 
unheard, but he must needs take several strides about 



THE STAGE ASSASSIN". 29 

the room, in the course of which he wilfully upsets a 
chair, and creeps under the table. This noise being 
also responded to by a loud crash on the drum, the 
victim starts up and observes that " Surely he heard a 
noise.' He even proceeds to look under the table, but 
the assassin creeps out, and contrives to dodge the 
victim, who, having indulged in a short soliloquy on 
storms, settles down to go to sleep again. 

He is what is termed "off" in no time, and the 
assassin then goes seriously to work, by taking hold of 
the victim's cloak, which causes the good nobleman to 
wake up to a sudden sense of his situation. With a 
degree of tact for which his former proceedings had not 
prepared us, the victim contrives to slip out of the cloak, 
and glide away altogether from the room ; when the 
Stage Assassin with his eyes averted — a movement no 
doubt designed to indicate his being slightly conscience- 
stricken — plunges the weapon into the cloak, which he 
kills at least half-a-dozen times, as if to make sure that 
the deed is done, and then retires with the comfortable 
conviction that he has earned his money. 

The intended victim seldom takes any public notice of 
the attempt upon his life, but prefers the secret satis- 
faction of confounding the wicked nobleman by appearing 
in the last scene, when the Stage Assassin, having got 
the bribe without doing the work, is often seized with 
remorse, and denounces the wicked nobleman, who gives 
a savage scowl, and takes his place gloomily between 
two supernumeraries, in token of his being prepared to 
resign himself into the hands of justice. The good 
nobleman is occasionally so charmed with the change in 
the Stage Assassin's conduct, that a cottage and a per- 
manent income to keep it up, are placed by the former 



30 THE STAGE STEWARD. 

at the latter's service, as a premium for having stabbed 
an old cloak by mistake, taken a large sum for what he 
has not done, and betrayed the individual who paid for 
his services. " No money returned ' is, however, no 
less the motto of the Stage Assassin, than of the stage 
manager. 

Though it is certainly the province of the character 
we have been describing to harrow up the audience by 
his hideous aspect, it is possible to carry the matter a 
little too far, as was once the case at a theatre, where 
the assassin had " made up " so frightfully well, that on 
his first entrance he sent all his fellow-performers terrified 
off the stage, threw the whole orchestra into fits by his 
awful aspect, and, what was worse than all, scared awaj 
the audience. 



IX.— THE STAGE STEWARD. 



The Stage Steward is generally a compound of some 
of the most opposite qualities. He is a kind of walking 
dramatic cruet-stand, in which the vinegar of soured 
temper, the salad oil of better feelings, the pepper of 
irritability, and the mustard of a gnawing conscience 
are mixed together in about equal quantities. 

The Stage Steward has generally embezzled the whole 
of his master's property, and has not unfrequently sent 
the infant heir on a voyage of discovery down a stream 
in a wicker basket, some five-and-twenty years before 
the play begins, with the intention of drowning him. 
The basket usually drifts ashore in the garden of some 
old cottager, who adopts the infant heir without knowing 
who he is ; but the child has generally a bundle of title- 



THE STAGE STEWARD. 31 

deeds concealed in his bib, or tucked in bis tucker. 
These are always carefully preserved, but never produced 
until it is necessary for the purposes of the dramatist. 

We must not, however, forget that it is the Stage 
Steward, rather than his victim, who is the subject of 
our present analysis. The Stage Steward has almost 
always in his confidence some desperate character, who 
comes every now and then to threaten exposure, unless 
he receives a considerable sum of money, which the 
Stage Steward always pays to him. There never seems 
to have been any actual necessity for the coalition, but 
it is generally thought expedient for the dramatic interest 
of a play in which there is a Stage Steward, that he 
should be pounced upon repeatedly in the height of his 
prosperity, by a person who gives demoniac laughs, and 
exclaims " Ha ! ha! ha!" or hints to the Steward 
sarcastically, that they are " old friends," and that he, 
the accomplice, will stick to the Stage Steward * ' through 
life/ for that he disapproves the principle of " old pals 
deserting one another because circumstances have some- 
what changed with both of them. ,, 

Though the Stage Steward has usually no authority to 
show, he succeeds in doing what he likes with the 
estates, receiving all the rents and accounting to nobody, 
simply on the strength of the heir not having made his 
appearance, — as if the next of kin would not have been 
down upon the Steward for the assets, when it was 
believed that something had happened to the rightful 
owner of the property. The Stage Steward not unfre- 
quently has an only daughter, whom he tenderly twaddles 
over, calling her " a green spot," " a lily," or a " lady- 
bird," and comparing himself to the trunk of an old 
tree, struck by lightning some hundred years ago, but 



32 THE STAGE STEWARD. 

freshened up by a sprig of jasmine twining round it. 
This daughter sometimes happens to have met a young 
peasant on the outskirts of the park, who says that 
something tells him he is something or other very great ; 
hut what that something is that has told him, or what 
is the other something he fancies he may be, never 
transpires. When the Stage Steward discovers the 
acquaintance made by his daughter, he generally begins 
cursing his child, and talking haughtily to the peasant, 
until tracing a spot on his arm, or a mole on his fore- 
head, the Stage Steward commences raving and ranting, 
concluding by throwing himself at his young master's 
feet. The accomplice then rushes in with the title-deeds, 
which he has found under a stone in the ruins of a castle, 
and a marriage is got up between the Steward's daugh- 
ter and the heir, who forgives everybody everything, 
and even appoints the accomplice to a lucrative and 
responsible situation on the estate. The Stage Steward 
then comes forward to tell the audience that honesty is 
the best policy, and the curtain falls. 

Sometimes we find the Stage Steward in the service of a 
gloomy nobleman, who is possessed of a large deal box 
like a sea-chest, from which he has been once seen to take 
a dagger wrapped up in a piece of rag stained with blood 
— a circumstance of which the Stage Steward avails him- 
self to sit down in his master's presence, and indulge in 
other paltry pieces of impertinence. The Stage Steward 
occasionally tears from the bosom of the nobleman a 
confession of a murder — a document which the latter 
always carries about, signed and sealed, in his breast- 
pocket. Having obtained possession of this instrument, 
the Stage Steward commits sundry acts of extortion, by 
pulling it out and brandishing it before the eyes of the 



THE STAGE STEWARD. 



33 



nobleman, who instantly consents to make over a moiety 
of his possessions to his tyrannical servant. It, however, 
generally happens that the blood-stained dagger which 
has been so carefully preserved, did not do its business 




effectually, for a long-lost nephew comes from abroad 
with a scar as the evidence of his having once received a 
wound, and the confession is consequently so much 
waste paper, while the cognovit stamp necessary to make 
it a legal document is money thrown away, in addition to 

D 



34 THE STAGE STEWARD. 

all the cost of copying. The arrival of the nephew does 
not seem much to alter the position of the nobleman, 
who asks and obtains forgiveness ; but the Stage Steward 
generally gets his conge, and goes off predicting the 
downfall of the proud house of Whoppemoff. 












■ 












SCENES 



FROM THE 



REJECTED COMEDIES 



BY SOME OF THE 



COMPETITORS FOR THE PRIZE OF £500, 



OFFERED BY 



MR, B. WEBSTER, LESSEE OF THE HAYMARKET THEATRE, 

IFOR THE BEST ORIGINAL COMEDY, ILLUSTRATIVE OF 
ENGLISH MANNERS. 



d 2 



THE SCEXES ARE SELECTED FROM THE COMEDIES OF 



>s S- 
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•N K 



-D. 



D- 

SERJ. T F D. 

J. R. P E . 

E. F *ZB IL. 



-s. 



D. L. B- 



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Le- 
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— N. 



Sir E. B. L n, Bart. 






.:. 



SCENE FROM "THE HUSBAND." 

BY J S S— N K S. 



AUTHOR OF " THE WIFE." 

The following scene is not, perhaps, in the happiest vein of the 
writer's great dramatic genius ; hut it, nevertheless, contains some of 
those points of style for which he is conspicuous. His predilection 
for making his high-horn heroines fall deeply in love with humhle 
heroes, is here happily comhined with another of his characteristics — 
that of making his women the wooers of his men — instead of allowing 
his men to he the suitors to his women. The little incident of the 
storm and the umbrella, is evidently founded on the hurricane and the 
standing up under the tree in the author's play of " Love ;" though, we 
think, of the two, the situation in the following scene is rather the 
hetter ; for there is certainly more scope for hy-play and the niceties 
of the dramatic art, under an umhrella, than could possibly he shown 
with effect beneath a rock, or a fixed tree, at the back of a large stage, 
like that of Covent Garden Theatre. 



Scene — A Parle, Enter the Countess of Summerton walking, and 

John the Footman, attending her. 

Countess. Oh why did nature make of ine a Countess, 
And yet make him a common serving man ? (Looking 

round at him). 
Is that a form to serve ? Deuce take his leg ! 
That leg is always running in my mind. 

John (advancing). I thought my lady spoke. 

Countess* You thought, indeed ! 
What right have you to think ? 'Tis not your place, 
Your office is to serve. 

John. I would no better (he retires hack). 



38 SCENE FROM " THE HUSBAND." 

Countess. Why, hang the fellow, how that air becomes 
him! 
His very modesty abashes me ; 
And yet his boldness might embarrass more. 
Come hither, John. 

John. My lady ! 

Countess. Will you come ? 
I said come hither, and you cry, " My lady ! " 
As if " My lady " meant to say, " I come. " 

John. My wish, my lady, was to study thine : 
So thou wouldst see if thou couldst read my heart. 

Countess. Thy heart ! And what is that ? A foot- 
man's heart ? 
Hast thou a heart at all ? Or, if thou hast, 
Is it a heart that thou canst call thine own ? 

John. If I can call mine own what I have lost, 
Then still my heart is mine, though I have lost it. 

Countess. I 'd like to know what thou dost call a heart. 

John. It is a thing of weakness, yet of strength, 
Yielding but firm — 'tis soft, and yet 'tis hard. 
But when 'tis not one's own, 'tis harder still. 

Countess (aside). Why, how the knave describes my 
You talk too freely, sir. [very self. 

John. lady ! lady ! 

Countess. Beware, sir, how you do mistake my speech. 
Thou art a varlet, arrant serving knave, 
And I a Countess, great, and nobly born. 
What right hast thou to wear thy shoulder-knot 
With such a jaunty and chivalric air ; 
As if it were thy buckler, not thy badge, 
Emblem of knighthood, not of servitude ? 
Who was it taught thee, sirrah, to obey 
With such a high-bred air of courtesy. 



1 



SCENE FROM "THE HUSBAND." 39 

That seems to fit thee rather to command ? 
Or if these are the gifts of Nature, sir, 
Why did not Nature crown her work at once, 
And make thee, not a footman, hut a lord — 
A Baron — Earl — a Marquis — nay, a Duke ? 

John. I 'm not of Nature the apologist — 
Nor know I why her works she has not crown'd. 
But this I know, we shall he crown'd ourselves, 
And hy the hand of Nature— for I swear, 
A storm "begins to creak above our heads, 
Crowning our crowns with precious stones of hail (the 
storm rises)* 

Countess. Yet, there you stand, as fast as adamant, 
Immoveable as rock, and dull as stone. 

John [offering an umbrella). I beg my lady's pardon ; 
but her eye 
Made me forget the lightmng's vivid flash, 
And to my ear her speech did drown the thunder. 
For sound and vision touch in vain the sense, 
Unless they reach the mind ; the mental whisper 
Is heard amid the battle's loudest din. 
'Tis not the largest object fills the sight : 
The eye may rest upon a thousand forms, 
And yet see only one. Ay, even now, 
Trees, meadows, gardens, lie before my vision, 
While nothing I behold but 

Countess (coolly). Sir, the rain ! 
You carry that umbrella in your hand, 
While I 'm unshelter'd. You forget your station. 

John (giving the umbrella). No, not my station — I 
forgot myself ; 
My station, lady, is to be your slave. 
Were I a Duke 'twould be my station still. [He retires up. 



40 SCENE FROM "THE HUSBAND." 

Countess (putting up the umbrella, and looking occa- 
sionally at John from under it). How noble is 
his speech, how proud his gait ! 
How well he bears the storm ! The pelting rain 
Dashes in vain against his lofty brow. 
He shakes it from him as the lion shakes 
The moisture from his mane. Heaven ! how it pours, 
Yet here I stand alone beneath this silk, 
Whose wide expanse would amply shelter two, 
While he gets wet, because he is— my servant— 
A victim to conventionalities. 
What is the world to me— I to the world— 
That I should be its slave— its abject slave ? 
No, no ! let Nature leap upon her throne- 
That throne the human heart. Come hither, John. 
John {running forward). I thought my lady called. 

Oh ! was I right ? 1 

Countess {endeavouring to assume a cold dignity). Sir, | 
you were right— yet you were also wrong. 
Right in the thought that I did summon you— | 

Wrong in your manner of approaching me. 
I called you, sirrah, to fulfil your duty. 
Are you aware I 'm holding this umbrella. 

John (taking it and holding it over the Couktess). Your 

pardon, lady. 
Countess. Come a little nearer ; 
The drippings, sirrah, fall upon my dress. 
Nay, do not stretch your arm to such a length ; 
A distant weight is always heavier far 
Than one that 's near ; an ounce upon a steelyard, 
By moving on one inch becomes a pound. 
Come nearer to me— nearer, sirrah, still ; 
Not that I wish you should approach me, sir, 



SCENE FROM " THE HUSBAND." 41 

Except to make the weight that 's in your hand 
More easy to be borne. 

John (drawing nearer). I feel no weight, 
At least none in my hand. (Aside) Keep up, my heart ! 

Countess. Oh ! this is more than I can longer bear. 
The rain comes faster every moment down, 
And he is getting soaked ; it must not be. 
Come nearer, nearer, nearer, nearer still. (Clinging to 

him). 
This is distraction in its wildest sense ! 

I cannot bear to see the thing I love 

John (with intense passion). The thing you love ! Oh 
say those words again ! 
Repeat them till the very tongue drops down 
Between the aching jaws ; then let the lips 
In a mild rnurinur take the accents up ; 
And when no more the weary lips can move, 
Let echo whisper still, " The thing you love !" 

Countess. My secret 's known at last ; now let it die; 
Strangle it in its birth ; hearts will be hearts ; 
And love will still be love — but there an end : 
The storm is over ; walk behind me, sirrah. 

[He retires several paces behind her. 
Countess (with intense emotion, as she goes out). Beat, 
heart ! thy throbbings meet no human eye ! 
Down tears! betrayers of the inmost soul ! 
'Tis but one effort more, (with a tremendous effort to 
maintain her calmness). 

John, follow me ! 
[She bursts into tears and rushes off the stage, John rushing 
wildly after her. 



HUMBUGS OF THE HOUR. 

BY D S J D. 



AUTHOR Of Ci BUBBLES OF THE DAY." 



The comedy from which the following scene is taken, like many of 
the works of its author, is very severe upon the lawyers ; and the dra- 
matist, in his desire to lash, makes the attorney — his principal character 
— occasionally lash himself with extraordinary bitterness. This the 
author would, no doubt, defend, by asserting that it is in the nature of 
the scorpion to dart his sting into his own back ; at least such may be 
his excuse if he thinks a scorpion black enough and venomous enough 
to bear out the comparison. It would appear to be an error in this 
comedy, that Joe, the errand-boy, is as smart upon his master as his 
master is upon him ; but it is, perhaps, a piece of ungrateful hyper- 
criticism to complain of a dramatist for putting wit into the mouths of 
all his characters, when to put it into the mouths of any is a difficulty 
that some of the writers for the stage in the present day appear to find 
insurmountable. 



Scene — A Lawyer's Office. Cormorant (a Lawyer) seated at a 
Table. Tool (his articled Clerk) sorting Papers near him. Joe 
(an Errand-boy) in attendance. 

Cormorant. Now, Tool, double the sum total of those 
costs, and then send in the bill to Softly. 

Tool. Very well, sir. But what if they should insist 
on a taxation ? 

Cormorant. What if they do? Graball and Co. are on 
the other side, and they will consent to anything. Lawyers 



HUMBUGS OF THE HOUR. 43 

are like cog-wheels, which, while turning apparently 
different ways, are both grinding for the same object. 

Joe. Or rather like the paddles of a steam-boat, which, 
though they are on different sides, generally go in the 
same direction. 

Cormorant. You are right, Joe ; and, like the paddles 
of a steamer, it is hot water that keeps them going. 

Tool. Blinker will be here presently, sir, about the 
unclaimed dividends. He has left the forged will. 

Cormorant. In the name of Mammon, silence! We 
are not to know that a will is forged ; our duty is simply 
ministerial. We are the mere instruments in the hands 
of Blinker. 

Tool. True ; but if he is the Vulcan of Doctors' Com- 
mons we are at least the Cyclops. 

Joe. Or, at all events, if we do not strike the iron we 
provide the brass, and so show our metal. 

Cormorant. I like your philosophy, Joe. A boy who at 
your age can joke with a toothsomeness smacking of the 
real relish upon the rascalities of an attorney's office is 
destined for the woolsack. But you were born in the 
house, and imbibed roguery with your mother's milk. 

Joe. My mother having eaten your bread — I've heard 
her say it was not manna — the roguery I imbibed in my 
youth is easily accounted for. 

Cormorant. Well ! I want no gratitude. I could well 
spare all you got. 

Tool. And your generosity seems to have been fruitful 
even to yourself, for you have grown richer in the very 
commodity you bestowed with a hand so bountiful. 

Cormorant. Has my brother Jonas, the sheriff's officer, 
been here to-day? 

Joe. I 've not seen him, sir. 



44 HUMBUGS OF THE HOUR. 

Cormorant. He was to have taken my client Spooney 
in execution on a false judgment yesterday, and I was to 
have lent him the money at a ruinous interest, until we 
could bring an action for false imprisonment, which I was 
to advise him to settle just before going to trial, and so 
pocket the whole of the costs. 

Tool. But might he not have objected to abandon the 
chance of gain for the certainty of loss ? 

Cormorant. Hum ! — he was a client of mine. Be- 
sides, could we not have transferred the doubt to the 
pleadings, and by uncertainty in the declaration have 
given a certainty to the issue? But where is my 
brother the auctioneer ? He should have been here by 
this time. 

Tool. You sent him to sell up the widow in Pentonville, 
and knock down, without reserve, the orphan family at 
Knightsbridge. 

Cormorant. Well, and hasn't he had plenty of time to 
have done all that ? The widow's goods were plethoric ; 
there was some meat upon them. But the orphans 
ought to have been short work, for I had plucked their 
father to the bone before they buried him. 

Joe. Did he leave a will, sir ? 

Cormorant. Do you think, Joe, I 'd ever let a client of 
mine be reduced to such a very disagreeable necessity ? 
No, no; I always take care of that, by administering 
to all he has myself, in his own lifetime. By-the-bye, 
Timkins looks consumptive, and has still got a little house- 
property left. I must have it before he goes, for I detest 
an unjust tax, and I have the greatest contempt for the 
legacy duty. Timkins' s relatives shall not be saddled 
with that burden at any rate, if my professional skill is 
of any use to me. 



HUMBUGS OF THE HOUR. 45 

* 

Tool. What is to be done with Jones's overdue bill 
for twenty pounds ? 

Cormorant. It 's been three years unpaid, has it not? 
Tool. Three years and four months yesterday. 
Cormorant. Then add an to the twenty, and write to 
him for two hundred. I dare say he 's got a bill for that 
amount somewhere, and if he hasn't it don't much signify. 
Tool. But if he should get a scent of the imposition ? 
Cormorant. Pshaw ! it 's not civet. Put half a dozen 
names on the back of the bill, and then, of course, we 
can't answer for what may have been done to it, in the 
course of its circulation. 

Joe. Besides, you know sir, by putting an additional 
0, we in reality add nothing. 

Cormorant {laughing). Very good, Joe. Egad ! you re 
a capital fellow ; you shall have the serving of the next 
writ. I know you admire the stern humanities. It 's 
five miles to walk, and the defendant has sworn he'll 
half kill the scoundrel who attempts to serve him. But 
what of that, Joe ? that 's nothing, is it ? ha, ha ! " The 
labour we delight in, physic's pain." The poet was 
right there, Joe, wasn't he? Come along Joe, I shall 
make a man of you in time. With your roguery, you 
may hope to be at the head of your profession. 
j Joe. Then how is it that you are almost at the bottom 
of yours ? 

Cormorant. Because extremes meet sometimes, I sup- 
pose, Joe. [Exeunt Cormorant and Joe. 

Tool. If extremes meet, I don 't wonder that there 's 
such a close connection between you and me, for you are 
the extremest villain, and I the greatest ass in existence. 
But stop a little bit, Mr. Cormorant ; I 'm nearly out of my 
time : yours has yet to come. [Exit Tool. 



SCENE FROM " THE TEMPLARS." 



BY SERJT. T— F— D. 



AUTHOR OF " ION." 



The dramatic Muse may be justly proud of the homage of this 
gentleman, who has raised an altar to her in the Court of Common 
Pleas, and allowed the brain of the poet to burst out from beneath the 
coif of the Serjeant. It is to be regretted, that, as somebody is said to 
have said of somebody else, he gave to parties what was meant for 
mankind. The Author of " Ion,"by failing to carry off Mr. Webster's 
prize — a result that his necessary attention to his profession has, no 
doubt, occasioned — must be considered to have given to Westminster 
Hall what was meant for the Haymarket. His love of forums and 
classic fanes has led him to lay his principal scene in the Temple, 
though he has not been enabled to carry out to the full extent the 
same classical idea which induced him to turn John into Ion, and 
Thomas (vide the " Athenian Captive") into Thoas. Still his choice of 
subject, and a richness of classical illustration, worthy of the very best 
editions of Lempriere, will, it is to be hoped, stamp tie following scene 
as not unworthy to be classed among the learned Serjeant's former 
productions. 

Scene— Tlie Interior of the Temple. Benchers on the right, Bar- 
risters on the left, and Students in the centre. Macdonald and 
Augustus reading from a slip of parchment. Julius standing 
near. 
Chief Bencher. The noble exercise is now performed,— 

Exercise worthy of old Saxon pile, 

And student ardent for pursuit of fame. 



SCEXE FROM " THE TEMPLARS." 47 

Benchers and barristers ! men of high thoughts, 
To solemn work of justice given up, 
As thoroughly as Hannibal to hate 
Of Carthagenia's sons. These signs around — 
Old windows mellow with the deep-stained glass,, 
Armorial emblems mocking Time's advance 
With vivid colouring ; deep as was the blush 
That young Latona wore, when driven out, 
By jealous Juno, from the realms above, 
Till lighting, as the classic story goes, 
On Delos' isle, by Neptune's friendly care 
She found a home in the ^Egean sea. 

Steward. The oath is now administered. 

Julius. 'Tis well, 

And we are called, Augustus and myself, 
Macdonald also : called all to the bar. 

Steward. 'Tis true ! 

Chief Bencher. Know ye the path ye have to tread ? 
I 'd tell it ; but perchance I have no need. 

Augustus. .We know it well. Though orient is the sun 
That shines upon our adolescent brows, 
Still we have seen the circumambient clouds 
Obscuring future path ; as if old Xox, 
Oldest of all the gods, daughter of Chaos, 
And sister to dark-fronted Erebus, 
Were heaping cumulative shadows up, 
To make obscure the way that lies before. 
But Julius speak. Why are you silent? 

Julius. Whv ? 

When hearts are full there is no way for words. 
'Tis true that Cadmus, by Minerva's aid, 
Did rear a crop of men from dragons' teeth, 
To teeming Terra's infinite surprise. 



48 SCENE FROM " THE TEMPLARS. 



J s 



Still human hearts are not of earthy stuff, 
And what they bear, they bear : unlike the earth, 
Which, in the act of bearing, grows more free, 
As did the goddess Hercules that bore ; 
Alcmena was her name ; Amphitryon's wife. 
Amphitryon was the Theban monarch called. 

Macdonald. Pardon me, noble benchers, if I ask 
A boon, like that which Phaeton implored 
From Phoebus, his own sire. 

First Bencher. What is that ? 

The rash youth Phaeton made rash request. 
It was to drive the chariot of the sun. 
The which the god permitting, down he came ; 
And buried in the ever-classic Po 
The hot-brained Phaeton his sisters three 
Did on the river's bank for aye lament. 
If your request at all resembles that, 
We must not grant it. 

Macdonald. All I ask is this : 

In mine own chariot let me drive you home. 

First Bencher. 'Tis well ! This high assemblage we 
dissolve. 
Come lead me out, for I am very old. 
When will the dawn of second childhood come 
Over the spirit, like a heaven-born light 
Breaking beneath the darkness of old age ? 
Why is it thus ? Are frames less strong than wills ? 

Julius. You 'd better ask that question of the hills. 

First Bencher. I've done so, sir, and vain it ever proves. 

Macdonald. Then if the hills won't serve you, try the 
groves. 

The scene closes in. 



THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 

BY J. R. P e. 

AUTHOR OF U FOLLIES OF A NIGHT." 



"We think it is Hamlet, who, on a strolling company being intro- 
duced to him, makes some very pertinent observations on the stage, 
and who, in giving directions for disposing of the poor players, desires 
his attendants to " see that they be well furnished.'" This point, in 
addition to his great merits of ingenuity in the construction of his 
plots, and neatness, frequently aided by brilliancy, in his dialogue, ap- 
pears to have struck forcibly on the mind of Mr. J. R. P., who has 
done for the stage what Eamonson and Co., the furniture dealers, 
propose to do for " Persons about to mam-." He may, in fact, be 
called the great Upholder of the Drama. 



The stage represents a splendidly-furnished drawing-room. 
There are two windows in the flat, each with a gilt cornice, 
in the style of Louis Quatorze ; the curtains are of satin 
damask, and there is a deep fringe over the top (this fringe 
must be exactly one foot in depth, for a good deal of the inte- 
rest of the piece is wound up in it; the cornices must also be 
massive, for the incidents hang upon them). In the centre of 
the stage is a round table with gilt claws, and on the top is 
a light-blue silk embroidered cover. Between the windows is 
a practicable mantel-piece, with a French clock upon it, which 
must strike the quarters; for it must be heard twice in the 
course of the scene, as there is a joke that depends upon the 
striking of the clock twice within a quarter of am hour. On 
the table is a copy of the "Court Journal" the "Book of 
Beauty " for last year, and a Camellia japonica in asmall 
Dresden china flower-vase. The carpet is a real Axminster, 
and a pier glass stands at the back of the clock, running from 
the bottom of the stage to the top, so that the heroine may see 

E 



50 THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 

herself in it at full length, as her principal sentiment depends 
upon this effect being fully realised. Tlie chairs are en suite 
with the curtains, the frames matching the cornices. There 
are several copies in alabaster of the Laocoon, the Venus de 
Medicis, the Dying Gladiator, the Three Graces, and other 
well-known pieces of sculpture scattered about the room, which 
must be highly scented with eau-de-cologne, so that the odour 
may reach the bach row in the upper gallery. On the rising 
of the curtain, Lady de Stanville is sitting with three 
spaniels of King Charleses breed lying at her feet ; Lord de 
Stanville is eating a biscuit devilled in champagne ; and 
Honoria de Stanville is playing the Polka on a Broad- 
wood's piano, while Dashington is practising a few of the 
attitudes to the music before the pier glass. 

When the music ceases, the clock on the mantel-piece strikes 
twelve, commencing with the chimes for the quarters, and then 
striking the twelve for the hour with the timbrel, which is now 
added to all the Parisian time-pieces. 

Dashington. Twelve o'clock, upon my imperial. Why, 
I 'd bet a pair of Houbigant's last importation to a petit 
baton of the cir de moustache, that if I were to devote 
three more of my precious hours to this maladetta Polka, 
I should be none the nearer to it than San Giovanni di 
Laterano at Rome is to the Punjaub.* 

Honoria. I must own you are rather gauche. But I 
will make Thalberg tell me all about it when he comes 
to give me my lecon de musique. He has seen those 
odious Bohemians dancing it all over their horrid country. 

Dashington. What a dreadful infliction ! By-the-bye, 

* San Giovanni di Laterano is one of the churches of the Eternal 
City, as Rome is frequently called. — (Vide " Pinnock's Catechism of 
Modern Geography.") The Punjaub is somewhere near the seat of 
the late war. I forget exactly where, and I have not time to look 
over the daily papers in which it is alluded to ; but I refer the curious 
reader to the " Times," the " Herald," the " Chronicle," the " Post," 
or the " Advertiser." 



THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 51 



is not Thalberg the fellow who nearly frightened me 
into fits, by thumping a great piano to the very verge of 
annihilation at that wretched alternation of instrumental 
and vocal murder, which some animal with an Italian 
name had the audacity to call a concert ? 

Honoria. I believe Thalberg did play on the occasion 
you allude to. 

Dashington. You may call it play, but may I never 
bask in the sorriso delta bellezza again, if I did not think 
it the hardest work I ever endured to listen to it. It was 
nearly as bad as having to support upon my fragile arm 
that odious old Duchess of Battersea, when that super- 
annuated nuisance, the Ex- Chancellor, thrust her upon 
me as a cargo to be conveyed to the dining-room. 

Honoria. Oh, you are a confirmed quiz. Mama, listen 
to Dashington : he don't like Thalberg. 

Lady de S. Mr. Dashington, my dear Honoria is un 
peu severe. He is one of those hypercritics whom society 
is apt to spoil, by giving to his sneer the weight of a 
sentence. His sarcasm, my love, may be compared to 
those pretty little moss roses we saw in the Duke's con- 
servatory last spring ; or perhaps to this Camellia japo- 
nica, which Israel sent me from Covent Garden this 
morning — it blows, and goes. 

Honoria. I do not understand you, mama. Am I to 
infer that you disapprove of Mr. Dashington's style \ Is 
there anything mauvais in his ton? Or do you think 
there is trop de legerete in his character ? 

Lady de S. No, my dear ; I should be sorry to accuse 
him of legerete on such slight grounds. But your papa 
has finished his devil, and will be ready to talk with us 
about the day's arrangement. {Approaching Lord de 
Stanville). Now, my love, that you have disposed of 

e2 



52 THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 

your goute diabolique, perhaps Honoria and I may claim 
your attention ? 

Lord de S. My dear Lady de Stanville, you are 
always claiming my attention, when the nation seems to 
require it. 

Honoria. My dear papa, I wish there were no such 
things as nations ; for you are always full of the nation 
when we want you to talk about some little affaire de 
plaisir. 

Dashington. Vous avez raison, ma chere. Politics are 
only fit to be talked over by great coarse men, with 
some horrible liquid placed before them in frightful 
vessels made of pewter. 

Lord de S. There is your error, Dashington. It is 
the coarse men, with the frightful vessels made of pew- 
ter — your patriots, with their pint pots before them — that 
do all the mischief. If the constitution had been pre- 
served in champagne, we never should have seen it so 
swamped in half-and-half, as I told the Premier as lately 
as yesterday. 

Honoria, Well, papa ! I hope the Premier will act 
upon your information. 

Lord de S. {smiling). Ah, Honoria ! Dashington, I 
see, has inoculated you with some of his own disrespect 
for the British bulwarks. But be assured, my dear child, 
we shall never sneer stability into the throne, nor extin- 
guish the flame of revolution by an epigram (the clock 
strikes a quarter past 12). I wish Dashington would 
imitate that clock, and give us occasionally some quarter.* 

* It will be observed, that this is the joke which renders it neces- 
sary that the clock on the mantel-piece should strike all the quarters ; 
and the preceding dialogue must be so timed that the point of the 
joke comes in precisely at the proper moment. 



THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 53 

Dashington. I own that I am apt to be un jwco ferri- 
bile, when I speak of politics ; but, really, I had such a 
complete degout, when my imbecile old uncle, the Vis- 
count, would insist on sending me into that odious House 
of Commons, where the wretches go to sleep in their 
hats instead of their nightcaps, that I hate the very 
name of Whig or Tory. 

Lady de S. Well, Honoria ! we will leave the gentle- 
men to dispose of the nation at their own convenience. 
I must go to the Bank, and give it to Herries well, for 
letting me overdraw my account so awfully. I must 
then abuse Antrobus for sending us such dreadfully 
strono* tea, and afterwards call on Storr, to desire him to 
send Mortimer down to look at the point of your papa's 
pencil-case. Good morning, Mr. Dashington. 

Dashington. A revederci. I kiss the tip of your troi- 
sibne doigt. [Lady de Staxville and Honoria exeunt. 

Lord de S. Dashington, a word with you. I cannot 
be insensible to the fact that Honoria loves you, and 
doats on you with all that devotion which a young and 
tender-hearted creature, just gushing into womanhood, 
is sure to feel towards the one object who first elicits 
from her that passion which, for weal or woe, is to make 
or mar her future existence. 

Dashington. Tres-bien. Proceed. Your lordship inte- 
rests me. Parole d'honneur. 

Lord de S. When that fair creature's mother first 
placed her infant form in my enraptured arms, I swore 
an oath, Dashington 

Dashington. Parhleu ! What a horrid, naughty thing 
to do at such an interesting, I may almost say, such a 
holy moment. 

Lord de S. (sternly). You mistake me, sir. 



54 THE ABSURDITIES OF A DAY. 

Dashington {aside). Tai mis mon pied dedans. [Aloud). 
I beg your lordship's pardon. 

Lord de S. It is granted. Well, to resume my story. 
Where was I ? 

Dashington. Holding your baby, and swearing an oath, 
Lord de S. Right, right ; so I was, Dashington. The 
oath I swore was this : — Never to crush that bud, when 
it should become a blossom ; never to tear away that 
tendril when it should have become a branch ; never to 
plant a dagger in that breast, so fair, so young, so 
innocent. 

Dashington. I admire you for your good intentions. 
They do you credit ; and though I may seem the mere 
papillion of the moment, believe me, my lord, I have a 
protecting wing for Honoria, which she may safely 
nestle under. 

Lord de 8. This language, indeed, delights me. In 
the words of the wary Richelieu, cest bien. 

Dashington. But let me bring to your mind the king's* 
reply to him. 

Lord de S. Another time, Dashington. Now to look 
for the ladies. [Exeunt Lord de S. and Dashington. 

* The king's reply I do not know, and if I did, I think :t would 
only have impeded the action of the piece to have introduced it. In 
Maunder's " Treasury of History " I find nothing at all like it ; and 
Boyle's " Chronology " is equally silent. The " Penny Cyclopedia " is 
rather more satisfactory ; and the whole of the article on Richelieu in 
that work will repay the reader who happens to he ignorant of the 
wily statesman's character. 



JANE JENKINS; 



OR, 

THE GHOST OF THE BACK DRAWING-ROOM. 
BY E. F zb ll. 

AUTHOR OF M JONATHAN BRADFORD 1 OR, THE MURDER AT THE 

ROADSIDE INN. ' 



This gentleman s works stand in the same relation to the dramatic 
literature of the country as that in which the " Chamber of Horrors,"' 
at Madame Tussaud's, may be said to stand with reference to the rest of 
the collection. No man has done more with the stage ; for, while ordi- 
nary dramatists confine themselves to a single scene, the Author of 
"Jonathan Bradford" represents four at once: in which tragedy on 
the first floor is combined with comedy on the basement ; or farce in the 
two-pair harmonises with opera in the attic. In the following scene he 
has gone even beyond himself, for he has added a sort of sepulchral 
ballet in the back drawing-room, to the usual apartments within which 
he has hitherto circumscribed his extraordinary genius. 



The stage represents a house with the front taken of, so as to shoxo at 

one view the front parlour, the entrance hall, the front drawing- 
room with folding doors (shut), and the front attic. Jane 
Jenkins sitting in the drawing-room reading. Susan Saucebox 
m the attic mending a pair of stockings. 

Jane Jenkins (in the drawing-room). Another hour 
gone in reading, and Harry not returned. Oh, man, 
man ! How little do you know the heart of woman ! 
Your selfish love is like the impetuous surge dashing 



56 JANE JENKINS. 

against the flinty rocks of the briny ocean ; but hers is 
pure, deep, and disinterested as the pearl that lies at the 
bottom. [Goes on reading to herself. 

Susan Saucebox {in the attic). Well, that stocking is 
heeled, and if I could heal the lacerated feelings of my 
poor missus as easy as I 've done that, I should be worth 
another pound in wages, and tea and sugar into the 
bargain — that I should. It 's too bad of master to stop 
out as he does, keeping me up and knocking missus 
down so low that she '11 mope herself to death. It sets 
me all of a tremble to think of it. Oh lor ! {screams) 
what was that ? I 'm sure I heard something. It 
couldn't have been the cat, for he 's out for the evening ; 
it warn't missus's bell, because it didn't ring ; perhaps 
it was my Peter giving me the signal, by sending a pea, 
through a pea-shooter, against the window. Poor fellow ! 
I mustn't leave him in the cold, if it is him, and so 1 11 
run down at a wenter and let him in. 

\_Exitfrom the attic. 
Jane (in the drawing-room). I'm sure I heard a noise. 
I am not given to fancy, for my heart has been too much 
used to reality— real suffering— to think of that. No. 
Could it be Harry ? Oh ! if I thought it could, I'd bor- 
row the wings of Mercury, and fly to the street door to 
let him in, as the moth flies to the candle that consumes 
it. No, no, it would be too much happiness. It can- 
not be : Harry never comes home till the morning now. 
I '11 e'en read awhile longer. 
. [Goes on reading. A gentle Mocking is heard at the hall dom\ 

Enter Susan Saucebox on tip-toe into the hall. 

Susan. Well, here I am. I 've managed to pass the 
drawing-room door, and get into the hall. When a 



JAKE JENKINS. 57 

servant of all-work wants to do anything without her 
missus hearing her, she should always go on tip-toe ; 
that 's what makes me stand so high as I do. (A noise is 
heard at the street door.) Oh! what was that ? 

[She gives one very loud scream. Jane in the drawing-room 

starts up, listens a moment, and tluen exclaiming * It must 

have been the wind P* goes on reading. 

Susan (still in the passage). Oh, what a fool I am, to 
be sure; it was only Peter. — Who else could it be? (The 
street door is forced open, and Lord Daggerly, with 
Black Frank the Bargeman, both mashed, enter the 
hall. Susan is about to scream when Lord Daggerly 
holds a jjistol to her head, and Black Frank places a 
cutlass near her throat ; she shrinks from it, all round 
the stage. Black Frank follows her with a sword in 
his hand, but suddenly stops and looks at Susan. 

Black Frank. Why, Susey, is that you, my gal ? 

Susan. Black Frank ! Why, I thought you 'd been 
comfortably hanged, drawn, and quartered these four 
years. Why, where did you spring from ? 

Black Frank. Never you mind. You ask no ques- 
tions and you'll hear no lies. 

Susan. But what has become of you all this time ? 

Black Frank. I 've been upon my travels, ha, ha, ha ! 
( To Daggerly). Hav'n't I, my lord ? 

Susan. My lord ! why, is that a real live actual lord? 
I never saw a lord before. How d 'ye do, my lord ? 

Daggerly. Hush ! I must not be known. (/I side.) 
This fellow's familiarity may ruin all ; but I have 
embarked thus far in the road of guilt, and come what 
may I must go through with it. Oh ! if the world 
could only read the torments written in letters of 
adamant on this blackened heart, the innocent would 






58 JANE JENKINS. 

shrink from me, and even the guilty would greet me 
with that look of calm contempt which seems to say 
" There goes the assassin of his brother's heir, the 
usurper of his nephew's property." {During this speech 
Black Frank and Susan have been talking together, 
and they now both come down to the front.) 

Susan. No, but I won't, Mr. Frank. 

Black Frank. Yes, but you will, Mrs. Susan. 

Susan. I shalln't, and I can't, and I won't now — 
that's more. 

Black Frank. Oh, but you will, and you can, and 
you shall, and no less. {He kisses her ; she runs off the 
stage, and he runs after her). 

Jane {in the drawing-room). All 's quiet now. I'll 
try to sleep, and when Harry comes 1 11 welcome him 
with a sweet smile, like that which the balmy south 
pours upon the bounteous earth ; or as the sun, constant 
to the sunflower, illumining all it rests upon. (She 
sinks to sleep ; slow music). 

Daggerly. Now for my bloody purpose. The title- 
deeds, I know, are put away in the room above. If I 
am thwarted, blood must be spilled — but whose blood — 
ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — not mine — not mine. (Rushes off 
frantically towards the drawing-room). 

Re-enter Black Frank and Susan. 

Susan. I wish you'd mend your ways. 

Black Frank. You'd better ask the parish to do that. 

Susan. Oh, you are such a wag ! Now what would 
you say if I were to accept you ? 

Black Frank. Say ! Why, that you were a regular 
trump ; and then I'd retire, and then we could keep a 
little farm together. 



JANE JENKINS. 



59 



Duet — Black Frank and Susan. 
"When a little farm we keep," &c. ' 

[At the end of the duet both go off together, 

Daggerly (opening the drawing-room door, and entering). 
All 's quiet. She sleeps. The title-deeds, I know, are 
kept beneath that very sofa. How to obtain them I 
know not. There is but one way {he draws his dagger, 
and goes towards Jane to stab her). How like my mother ! 
{He turns away). No, no, no. I cannot. I must not. 
[He throws the dagger down, and Jane starts up at the 
noise. She looks round the room very slowly, so that 
Daggerly is able to elude her glance by keeping just 
behind the part of the room she is looking at. She goes 
to sleep again, when he forces up the lid of a box with the 
point of his dagger. A skeleton springs up with a will in 
his hand, pointing to the signature, which is written in 
blood. Daggerly swoons in the skeleton s arms, and 
both fall together into the box, which closes with a spring \ 
Jane wakes up, and Harry entering at the moment, they 
lock each other in each other's arms. Black Frank and 
Susan rush in to form a picture. Blue fire, and the 
curtain falls. 



FLOREAT ETONA 

BY D. L. B T. 

AUTHOR OF " ALMA MATER." 



The Author of the following scene has had the felicitous idea of 
making the head-master of Eton not a mere dull pedant, but a decided 
wag, though his jokes partake of the property of " Antiquity," which 
Gray, in his Ode on Eton College, has very properly attributed to its 
" towers." The rich practical joking which contributed so much to 
the success of " London Assurance " has been introduced here with 
good effect, and the top of the gas lamp being larger than the knockers 
brought in by the hero of his former play, proves that the author's 
ideas have greatly expanded since he first burst upon the public as one 
of that almost extinct species — the writer of a successful Five Act 
Comedy. 

There is a good deal of freshness imparted, by the description of a 
Fox-hunt, which places Reynard quite in an original point of view ; 
and the Author's admitted mastership of the dramatic art of surprise is 
admirably brought out by the new mode in which the Fox is ulti- 
mately captured. 



Scene — A Room in the House of one of the Dames. Enter Lord 
Morton with the Reverend Peter Paidwell, his tutor. Paidwell 
lias got the top of a gas-lamp in his hand, and Morton a basket 
of apples. Tliey are both laughing immoderately. 

Lord Morton. Well, my worthy tutor ! We have 
had a splendid morning's study. We have been reading 
the Book of Life, my Reverend Mentor, or, rather, tor- 
mentor ; and that 's better than all the foolscap in the 
universe. 



FLORE AT ETOXA. 61 

Paidwell. Why, yes, my lord ; there 's some truth in 
that. As Caesar said — 

Lord Morton. Hang Csesar. What am I to do with 
this basket of apples — for here comes the Doctor ? 

Paidwell The Doctor ! Where shall I go ? What 

shall I do ? 

Lord Morton. As to going, go nowhere ; and as to 

doing, do as I do. 

Paidwell But the Doctor! What shall I say to 

him ? 

Lord Morton. Wait till you hear what he 's got to say 
to you. Ahem ! {Coughs). 

Enter the Doctor. 

The Doctor. Why, how is this ? Not at your studies, 
Lord Morton ? You should not make yourself such an 
as in prcesenti, if you expect to have any ease infuturo. 
I never see you without thinking of Virgil's line — Arma 
virumque cano — because the last word of the three 
appears to me to represent a thing you stand very much 
in need of. 

Lord Morton. There you 're wrong, Doctor. Isn't 
the Doctor quite in error, Mr. Paidwell ? 

The Doctor. Mr. Paidwell, I didn't see you before. I 
hope your pupil is pursuing his studies {seeing the apple- 
basket in Lord Morton's hand). But, bless me ! What 
has he got there ? 

Lord Morton. These, sir — these are Poma. The 
Lsftins, sir, called them Poma. We call them apples, 
Would you like to taste one, Doctor ? {Cramming one 
into the Doctor's mouth).. 

The Doctor. No, no, thank you {munching the apple, 
and almost unable to speak). No, no, I — I — I — 



62 FLOREAT ETONA. 

Lord Morton [aside to Paid well). We must get rid 
of him. Don't let him speak a word. 

Paidwell {aside to Morton). I '11 tackle him a bit. i 
All you 've got to do is to cram an apple into his mouth, 
whenever he opens it with the intention of saying any- 
thing. (To the Doctor). You see, Doctor, I thought it 
necessary that our young friend here should taste 4he 
fruits of education. 

The Doctor. But apples, sir, are not the fruits — 

[Lord Morton thrusts an apple into the Doctor's mouth. 

Lord Morton. Apples not the fruits ? Taste them, 
Doctor. Try another, 

[The Doctor runs to the hack of the stage, munching, with Lord 
Morton after him. 

Paidwell. You see, Doctor, there are in these days so 
many new lights, that they require looking into. 

Doctor. They do. 

Lord Morton. An apple, Doctor ? 

Doctor. No, thank you (he retreats a little). 

Paidwell. As I was saying, Doctor, the new lights 
must be looked into. 

Doctor. They must. (Lord Morton holds up an apple, 
and the Doctor slips away). 

Paidwell. Well, Doctor, if you look into a light, 
whether new or old, you must take the top off ; so I 
took the top off one of the gas-lamps in the town, and 
here it is ; look at it. (Puts it on the Doctor's head; 
Lord Morton jams it furiously down. The Doctor 
tries in vain to get off the top of the lamp, which fits 
tightly on to his head ; he rushes about the stage frantically , 
without being able to see, and Lord Morton continues 
pelting him with apples. At length the Doctor runs off, 
Lord Morton throwing the basket after him). 



FLOREAT ETONA. 



63 



Lord Morton. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, I never had a fancy 
for doctor's stuff ; and, as I leave to-morrow, I thought 
I 'd convince the Doctor of my good taste before I 
quitted him. 

Paidwell. Ha, ha, ha ! I shall get my dismissal ; and 
your Lordship will, of course, fulfil your promise about 
the chaplaincy to your uncle, the Duke. 

Lord Morton. Ay, that I will. You are a worthy 
fellow, Paidwell, and your heart is in the right place, if 
your head is not. I wouldn't give a straw for your puri- 
tanical parsons — fellows with prayers upon their lips and 
humbug in their hearts. No, no ; give me the clergyman 
who can hunt the fox. What so inspiring as a fox-hunt ! 
Yoicks ! yoicks ! go the hunters. On, boys, on ! The 
pack is on the scent. That 's right, Pincher ; that dry 
ditch will give us a fox, for a pound. They Ve started 
him. There he goes ! See how slily old Reynard sits 
down to count the number of the dogs before they come 
up to him. Now he 's off ! Yoicks ! yoicks ! slapping 
away across the main road, never stopping to look at the 
mile-stone, but flying right over it, pack and all, like 
waves over the sand at low water. Now they slacken 
their pace — how beautiful ! There they go, along the 
side of the hedge, undulating gently, like so many 
zephyrs floating towards their home in the west ! 
Yoicks ! yoicks ! They 're off again ! Reynard will 
be too much for them this time. Mark how he looks 
round, and winks at the dog nearest to him. Now they 
give tongue. Ha ! they '11 have him now ! But no, 
the turn in yonder copse has proved a harbour of refuge. 
Yet, stay — what 's that ? A shepherd's dog, turning 
round the corner, meets Reynard face to face, and all is 
over. There, Paidwell, let any man, after that, say, if 
he dare, that he despises fox-hunting. 



64 FLOREAT ETONA. 

PaidwelL I do not. I believe it to be one of the bul- 
warks of the constitution. 

Lord Morton. You're right, Paidwell. I never see 
one of those honest old faces cased in leather breeches, 
and hear those invigorating cries of yoicks ! — whether 
in the baritone of manhood or the falsetto of extreme 
age — without thanking Providence that there are still a 
few British hearts left beneath the buttoned-up blue 
coats of the English country gentlemen. 

PaidwelL Your sentiments do you credit, my Lord ; 
and though the exuberance of your spirits sometimes 
induces you to deprive a citizen of his street-door 
knocker, what are a few knockers more or less when 
weighed in the scale of the British constitution — that 
palladium at once of the peasant and the peer, the yeo- 
man and the earl, the prince and the people ! 

[Exeunt Paidwell and Lord Morton, arm-in-arm. 









A STORY OF LONDON. 

BY LE— H H— T: 



AUTHOR OF " A LEGEND OF FLORENCE," 



The scene from the Comedy sent in by this gentleman is enriched 
with a variety of metre and a homeliness of illustration, imparting 
such an air of truthfulness to the composition that we fancy it is not 
poetry we are reading, but prose. As every line commences with a 
capital letter, we become convinced — if we go on long enough — that 
we are perusing verse ; and when we put down the book, we feel 
satisfied, bv the mvstifving influence exercised over ourselves, that the 
poet, like Iago, " means more — much more — than he unfolds." The 
Comedy, from which we have quoted, must have been one of those 
select few that puzzled the Committee for a very considerable time. 
We confess that the one scene has puzzled us, and we can therefore 
sympathise with the individuals who had to form an opinion of five acts 
of similar material. 



Scene — The exterior of the Tusculum Villas in the Surrey New 
Road,. A Daisy in the foreground, and Polyanthuses in pots 
at the side of the stage. 

Enter Smith and Brown, 

Smith. Have yon seen Robinson — that very best of 
Good worthy fellows — one of yonr men that we can 
Trust with our lives ? 

Brown. No, sir ; I have not seen him ; 
I thought the morning; air he would have wished to 
Taste, as it only can be tasted, early. 
Before the noon. 

F 



66 



A STORY OP LONDON. 



Smith. Can he be housed ? 

Brown. It seems so, 
For if he were not housed, it's very probable 
He would be out of doors, scenting the morning 
Air through his freshened nostrils. 

Smith. Ay ! that 's like him ; 
I Ve known him over a posy of field flowers, 
Nothing but marigolds, buttercups, and a few 
Poppies — an hour ponder. 

Brown. He loves the country. 

Smith. Ay, that he does. 

Brown. I 'd rather be unhearted, 
Incapable of pleasant old affections, 
Than lose my relish for the meadows or 
The honest hedge that defends them from intruders — 
As errant cow, or some too rampant pony, 
Turned out to grass into its rightful owner's 
Paddock, and prancing wildly into that of 
His master's neighbour. 

Smith. Robinson is the merriest 
Dog in the place, and few that I know are like him. 

Brown. He 's an old fellow after my own heart ; 
I like to see him over a book, with his eye 
Not on the page, but bent on mental vision, 
Pompted by pithy sentence, which he read j 

A quarter of an hour ago and dwells on still : 
They call it dreaming — they — the world I mean ; 
Because they do not understand it. Robinson 
Is one of those uncomprehended creatures 
That people can't make out ; he 's heaped up virtues. 

Smith. This is his house, if I am not mistaken, 
His daisy that, and those his polyanthuses. 

Brown. They are : the house he calls his little 
Tusculum, 



i i 
- 



A STORY OF LONDON. 67 

For he respects classical names, and why 

Should he not do so, if the custom likes him ? 

I 've heard him say he fancies himself Cicero, 

When looking out of his window, on to the bed 

Of flowers. But then an omnibus passing by, 

Making a dust, reminds him he is also 

Nothing but common dust — much commoner 

Than the great dust that Cicero was made of. 

[A chirp heard in the distance. 

Smith. Was that the lark ? 

Broiun. It sounded very like one. 
The lark is like the cousin to the linnet. 
The family of birds, with sounds familiar, 
Seem all alike to me when they're all singing. 
The grasshopper is a relation of the cricket, 
One in the fields — raising all day a merry 
Chirrup ; the other in doors. He breaks forth at night. 
Down in the kitchen — tuneful, too, on the hearth. 

Smith. This pleasant conversing we must no more 
Indulge — for labour is the lot of man. 
Nature is nature — business is also business. 
So let us in to call on Robinson. 
I Ve words to say to him — not over sugary. 
He owes me twenty pounds ; and I must now 
Have it, by hook or crook. 

Jones. The world 's ill used him ; 

So it appears to me extremely probable, 

That if at all vou get it — which much I doubt, 

'Twill be as you have purposed — with a hook. 

[Exeunt together into the house. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT; 

OR, 

THE TAR ! THE TEAR ! ! AND THE TILBURY ! ! ! 

BY G T A T a'B T. 

AUTHOR OF " THE SEMINARY FOR SENSIBILITY," AND OTHER 

MS. DRAMAS. 



The extreme conciseness of this gentleman's style enables us to 
print his Comedy entire ; and when we see the wide range of subjects it 
embraces ; the rough honesty of the tar ; the recklessness of the liber- 
tine lord ; the abiding endurance of the patient girl ; the affectionate 
bluffhess of the admiral her father; the merry promptness of the 
coxswain to indulge in one of those hornpipes which constitute the 
distinctive character of the British seaman ; — when we see so much 
genuine nature, such pathos, such a wholesome enthusiasm for English 
commerce, such a nice feeling for the peerage, which makes the libertine 
lord repent in the fourth act ; — when we see all this, we are only 
surprised that the Comedy is in this collection instead of being acted on 
the boards of the Haymarket. Whether the fine and healthy tone of 
British sentiment, whether the well-turned compliments to the English 
merchant, would have told in the present day of artificial institutions, 
may be doubtful ; but with all respect for the Committee who rejected 
the " School for Sentiment," we think the experiment was worth 
trying. Perhaps Mr. Webster may yet be tempted to cast a piece, so 
evidently written with an eye to his present company. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

Scene — A Room. 
Enter Tom. 

So my young master 's going to sea. Well, if he can 
see anything in the sea, I can't. Oh, here he comes. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 69 

Enter Herbert. 

Tom. So you actually go, sir ? 

Herbert. Yes, Tom ! Go I must, for the man who, 
when his country requires his arm, refuses to give his 
heart, is a poltroon, Tom — a poltroon. 

Tom. Ay, sir ; but you have given your heart else- 
where. Miss Emily, sir. 

Herbert. Ah ! Tom — that name has touched a thou- 
sand chords in my bosom — don't mention Emily, unless 
you wish to unman me, Tom ! — [He weeps.) 

Tom. Nay, sir ; I never meant this. 

Enter the Coxswain. 

Coxswain dances a naval hornpipe, while Tom and Herbert talk 

aside. 

Herbert. Well, Coxswain, is the ship ready ? Have 

you reefed your best bower ? 

Coxswain hitches up his trowsers, and bows. 
Herbert. Then, hurrah for Old England ! 
Tom. Hurrah ! \Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

Scene — A splendid Drawing-room. 
Enter Emily, with a telescope. 

Emily. Ha, what is splendour ? Nothing ! My heart 
tells me so ; and the heart of woman, like the loadstone, 
never deceives. 

Enter Servant, who announces Lord Tinder, and Exit. 

Emily. Ah ! let me give one look towards the ship 
that contains my own Herbert. Alas ! no longer mine, 
but his country's — [Looks through telescope). 



/U THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 

Enter Lord Tinder. 

Lord T. Ah, Miss Emily — surveying the beauties of 
nature ? Happy, happy telescope ! —would I were that 
telescope ! 

Emily. You are a telescope, my Lord ; for I see 
through you. 

Lord T. Ha, ha ! Very good. You are severe* 
Miss Emily. 

Emily. My Lord, do not insult me. Though I am 
the humble daughter of a merchant, let me tell you, my 
Lord, that England owes everything to her commerce ; 
and there is no higher eulogy can be pronounced on 
man, than to say he is a British Trader. 

Lord T. But, Miss Emily— 

Emily. Nay, my Lord — hear me out. Your wealth 
I despise ; your rank I might respect, but your advances 
I loathe, and your pretensions I reject with all a woman's 
scorn, and more than a woman's firmness. [Exit Emily. 

Lord T. Well, I m sure, a pretty business this, truly. 
'Pon honour ! [Exit. 



ACT THE THIRD. 



Scene — The Cabin of a Ship. 
Enter Herbert and the Admiral. 

Admiral. True, very true, young man. Shiver my 
old timbers — but it 's very true. 

Herbert. Well then, sir, may I still cherish the hope 
of your daughter Emily's hand ? 

A dmiral. Cherish the fiddlestick ! Splice my old 
figure-head, if I ever heard the like. What ! on the 
eve of an action, when every breeze that blows abaft the 



THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 71 

binnacle is like the voice of a little cherub that sits up 
aloft urging us to put forth all our force for Britannia ? 

Herbert. Sir, I feel as you do ; but you are not in 
love. 

Admiral. Love ! ods tarpaulins, rope-ladders, mast- 
heads, mainsails, and marline-spikes ! what does the 
fellow mean? — (Taking his hand). Well, well, boy; 
let 's get the enemy fairly put under hatches, and then 
we '11 talk about it. 

Herbert. Thanks, sir — a thousand thanks. 

Admiral. Come, come, don't stand palavering here. 
To the deck, to the deck — for the man who, while the 
British Lion is roaring out for assistance, would stand 
thinking about himself, is unworthy of the name of a 
British Seaman. [Exeunt arm-in-arm. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 

Scene — A Street in London. 
Enter Lord Tinder and Scamp. 

Lord. T. Well, Scamp, is everything ready ? 

Scamp. It is, my Lord. 

Lord T. And the tilbury in which I am to carry off 
the girl ? 

Scamp. It is, my Lord. 

Lord T. You are a precious scoundrel, Scamp. 

Scamp. I am, my Lord. [Exit Scamp. 

Lord T. Now then, for my plot. It is an awkward 
business, and I feel I am acting a part unworthy of the 
high character of a British nobleman. 

Enter Herbert. 

Herbert (starting). You here, my Lord ? 



72 THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 

Lord T. Yes, it's I. Ton honour ! 

Herbert, My Lord, I cannot see the honour of perse- 
cuting an amiable girl, or trifling with the young 
affections of a virtuous female. 

Lord T. But, sir — this language to me — a Peer of 
the realm. Ton honour ! 

Herbert. Nay, my Lord, though you were ten thousand 
Peers, I would assert the dignity of British manhood ; 
and with the last gasp of my breath contend for the honour 
and safeguard of lovely innocence. We shall meet again, 
my Lord. Till then, farewell ; and remember, my 
Lord, that the purity of the female heart is brighter 
than any gem that the proudest noble wears in his 
glittering but hollow coronet. [Exit. 

Lord T. Severe ! Ton honour ! Perhaps, after all, 
the fellow is right. Well, well, he shall see that the 
fickleness of the butterfly need not be accompanied with 
the sting of the wasp or the venom of the adder ; and 
he shall find that generosity, like a thing mislaid, is often 
found where we least expected to discover it. [Exit. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 

Scene — A Ball-room. 



Ghiests dancing, Servants handing round refreshments. Emily at 
the window looking earnestly through a telescope. 

Emily (coming forward). How these odious sounds of 
gaiety afflict my heart ! What is wealth ? — a bauble, 
that we have to-day, and find flown to-morrow. — 
(Cheering is heard without.) — Those sounds — what can 
it mean? It cannot — yes it may — no — no — it would 









THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 73 

be too mucli — too much happiness. — (Sinks on a sofa. 
The guests resume the da?ice). 

Enter, the Admiral and Herbert. 

Admiral. Blister my old figure-head, but this is a 
good idea of Emily, to receive her old sea-horse of a 
father with a ball. 

Herbert (seeing Emily). Why, what is that ? Ha ! it 
is — it is her sylph -like form ; but see — the gushing 
blood has left her cheeks — her hand is cold, her lips are 
motionless — She is — dead — (seizing the Admiral.) 
Unhappy old man — you — you — have murdered your 
child. 

Admiral. I know I have ! Why did I refuse my 
consent to your marriage until after our return from 
sea ? Why did I ? Oh, why did I ? 

Herbert. Ah ! old man ! Why did you ? 

Enter Lord Tinder. 

Herbert. My Lord, this intrusion is indecent. Behold 
your work ! (points to Emily, who suddenly recovers. 
Herbert rushes into her arms ; both scream with joy. 
The Admiral begins to dance, and sings snatches of an 
old naval song). 

Lord T. Well, I'm at sea. Ton honour ! I came 
to relinquish my claims to Miss Emily's hand. 

Herbert. Did you, my Lord ? Then take mine ; and 
the Peer need never be ashamed to grasp in friendship 
the hand of the honest seaman. 

Admiral. Hollo there ! Not so fast. Haul in your 
yard-arms a little bit. Am I not to be consulted ? 

Emily (chuching him under the chin). Nay, papa, you 
know you 're such a kind — good — amiable — handsome — 

Admiral. Whew ! (hissing her). Oh, you little bag- 



74 THE SCHOOL FOR SENTIMENT. 

gage. (To Herbert.) There, my boy! take her ; but 
mind ! only a hundred thousand down, and when Davy 
Jones invites your old father to his locker — (weeps). 
Herbert. Nay, sir, don't talk thus. 
Emily (wiping her eyes). You make me sad. 
Admiral. Well, well, child. Let 's hope that all our 
friends around will forgive 

The Tar. 
Emily. And sympathise with 

The Tear. 
Lord T. And say not a word about 

The Tilbury. 






GRANDMOTHER BROWNWIG. 

BY M— K L N. 

AUTHOR OF " GRANDFATHER WHITEHEAD." 



This gentleman, with a highly creditable respect for age, has given 
dramatic, vitality to " Grandfather Whitehead " and " Old Parr," whose 
name will go down to posterity in connection with the " Life Pills," 
which our author probably had in his eye (we hope he never had any 
in his mouth), when he wrote the last-named drama. It is understood 
that M. L., after having exhausted the annals of modern longevity, 
will seize on the venerable Methuselah, and drag him through all the 
exciting incidents of a five-act play for the Haymarket. If, however, 
he has a tendency to old age in his heroes, it must in justice to him be 
allowed that he rushes into the other extreme — avoiding the venerable 
and seeking for the new — in his jokes and his incidents. 



Scene. — The outside of a Cottage. Well worth pruning a goose- 
berry-bush in the centre. 
Wellworth, Another thorn run into iny finger ! "Well, 

it can't he helped. Where there is fruit, we ought to 
be satisfied with the good we find, and not care for the 
sharp things that we may encounter in getting to it. I 
wonder where poor old Grandmother Brownwig can have 
got to. Bless her ! I never look upon her venerable 
hairs, brown with nearly ninety autumns, but I feel 
a something gushing into my eyes, Hang it ! it can't 
be a tear ; no, no ! Stephen Wellworth is too much of 
a man for that. 

Cicely enters from behind, and, seeing Wellworth, stands 

at the bach unobserved. 

I wish that Cicely were here. I don't know how it is, 



76 GRANDMOTHER BROWNWIG, 

- 

but I love that girl, though I 'm too proud to tell her so; 
for she 's well to do, and I 'm poor. If I were rich, I 'd 
tell her my mind in a moment. 

Cicely (advancing). And Cicely knows your mind, 
Stephen ; and loves you all the better for this little 
avowal than for all the compliments that you could have 
offered to her face. 

Wellworth. Why, Cicely, I didn't expect this. 

Cicely. And why not, Stephen ? You would have 
been frank with me, but for your pride. I would not see 
it humbled, so I have been frank with you. Woman's 
gentler nature is more fitted to acknowledge the weakness 
of her heart ; and when she really loves, she would 
scorn, for the mere gratification of vanity, to extort 
from his nobler spirit an avowal which, if her affection 
be really strong, she can well afford to make without 
humility. 

Wellworth. Thank you — thank you, Cicely. Then 
henceforth we understand each other. But what if poor 
old Grandmother Brown wig should object to our union. 

Cicely. She object ? No, Stephen, there is no fear 
that she will object, unless she sees reason for objecting ; 
and then we ought not to press it. 

Wellworth. Why, no ; and yet I don't see what 
Grandmother Brownwig has to do with it. I 'm not 
going to marry her, you know. 

Cicely. Very true. Stephen. But I know your own 
better judgment will some day say that I was right. 
Now, believe what I tell you. You will — I know you 
wiU. 

Wellworth. Well, well : don't let us talk about that 
any more just now. But here comes the old lady, and 
with her that hungry fellow, Sharpshoes. Why, I 



GRANDMOTHER BROWN WIG. 77 

really think he 'd eat an elephant, if anybody would lend 
him a saucepan to boil it in. 

Cicely. It 's not his appetite that I object to, Stephen, 
for that is a part of our nature ; and nothing that 
nature gives ought to be the subject of a sneer. 

Wellworth. I didn't sneer at him, Cicely. I only 
said his twist was a tolerably voracious one. 

Enter Sharpshoes and Grandmother Brownwig, 

Grandmother B. Hi ! hi ! Ah ! ah ! Let me see ; 
that was fifty-seven years ago last Candlemas. I 
remember it very well ; because on that day I lent 
Master Sparrowgrass — no, itwasn't Master Sparrowgrass 
neither ; it must have been old Dame Fortyman. 

Sharpshoes. Well, now, never mind Master Sparrow- 
grass ; you asked me to dinner, Mrs. Brownwig, and 
though I ve taken off my great-coat, my appetite still 
clings to me. If we are to have some of your old recol- 
lections, bring them on with the dinner ; and while you 
indulge your memory, let me discuss the mutton. 

Grandmother B. Hi ! hi ! You 're a witty dog, 
Master Sharpshoes, — just like old Peter the serving-man, 
who used to live at the large hostel in the village. He 
was a wag (chuckles). Oh ! what a rare old joke that 
was he used to tell about — but it 's quite gone now — 
quite gone — all gone. 

Shaiyshoes. And so much the better, Grandmother 
Brownwig, if it was an old one ; old jokes, the sooner 
they re gone the better. 

Welhvorth (coming forward). I Ve heard you make some 
new ones, Mr. Sharpshoes, that you would have been 
glad to have found gone ; but you could not get them to 
go at all — ha ! ha ! ha ! {They all laugh at Sharpshoes, 
who retires up rather angry.) 



'8 GRANDMOTHER BROWNWIG. 

Cicely. My good grandmother, how do you feel this 
morning ? Wellworth and I were just saying-that- 
that — 

Grandmother B. Well, child, go on ; what were you 
just saying ? 

Wellworth. Why you see, grandmother, we thought 

that if we could persuade you to let us just 

Grandmother B. Ha ! ha ! I see-just to turn the 
poor old woman out of doors. ( Weeps). Well, well, I 
dare say I 'm very troublesome, but that 's not my fault 
— it 's my misfortune. 

Cicely (sobbing). Poor ! Poor ! Poor ! Grandmother ' 
Wellworth (stifling his emotion). Oh ! (recovering himself 
gradually). No, grandmother, we never could have 
meant that. Hang it, no ! If I had but a crust you 
should be welcome to it. 

^ Sharpshoes (coming for wd). What 's that about crusts? 
I 'm ready for anything, from a sirloin to a sandwich. 

Grandmother B. Crusts— sirloins-sandwiches. Ay, 
ay, I remember— in the reign of William the Fourth ; 
no, it was George, I think. 

Cicely. Never mind George the Fourth, grandmother ; 
it was of our marriage we wished to speak ; I thought 
and Stephen thought, that- that— . Didn't you think 
so, Stephen. 

Well. Oh, yes, exactly! that was my idea completely. 

Grandmother B. Hi, hi ! Ha, ha, ha ! I see all 

about it ; I was young once, and could sing, « Young 

Love lived once in an humble shed." {Sings apart of 

the song in a very feeble voice). But no, that 's all gone 

now, and past— 69 years ago last Bartlemy. Come, let 's 

go in and talk about it, softly, softly, softly. 

■ [They lead her in, and the orchestra ptays part of the air of 

" Young Love lived once in a humble shed,-' to finish the scene. 



« SCENE FROM CREDIT." 

BY SIR E. B. L N, BART. 



AUTHOR OF " MONEY 



M 



This remarkable writer throws about the riches of reading with the 
sportive facility of a Croesus throwing handfuls of copper amongst a 
grateful crowd' His pleasant method of alluding to what great philo- 
sophers said or thought, without boring us with what they really did 
think or say, is a happy device, saving the writer the labour of looking 
' the matter up, and the reader the weariness of perusing it. How much 
better it is to tell us that such a philosopher spoke the truth than to 
inflict upon us what, if it is the truth, must of necessity be common- 
place ! For it may be taken for granted that if a thing has been 
said a thousand years ago, we shall find, when it is repeated to us, that 
we have merely been going through the form of a new introduction to 
an old acquaintance— a process which the severest stickler for ceremony 
would regard as utter waste of time, to say the least of it. The Author 
of two of the most deservedly successful of modern dramas can well 
afford to have written one of the Rejected Comedies. 



Scene — A Library. Stately discovered reading. 

Stavehj [putting down his book). Anastasius was cer- 
tainly right, and Euripides almost as certainly wrong. 
Yet it is difficult to decide between them. I had rather 
hold with the Roman hard who, when he was told that 
Phidias— {enter a Servant). 'Sdeath, sir, did I not say 

I was at home to no one ? 

Servant. I thought, sir, that to Mr. Wentworth 

Staveh/ (hurriedly). Wentworth,Wentworth. How dare 

you come without him ? 



80 SCENE FROM "CREDIT." 

Servant. I have not, sir ; he is at the door. 
[Stavely starts up. Wentworth enters. They rush into each 
other's arms, and the Servant bows and retires.] 
Stavely. How are you, Wentworth, my old companion 
at Eton, my chum at college, and my friend everywhere ? 
Wentworth. And, indeed, your friend has been almost 
everywhere since he saw you last. 

Stavely. Sit down, my good fellow, and tell me all 
about it. Stokes ! [enter Servant), some claret. 

[Exit Servant. 
[They draw their chairs to the front of the stage, and sit. 

Wentworth. Well, Stavely, since I last dined with 
you at the Club, I have wandered over Italy ; I have 
conversed with the spirit of the Caesars in the Colosseum ; 
drank to the memory of Hannibal in the middle of the 
Alps ; bathed on the shore of Baise, and read Pliny on 
the top of Mount Vesuvius.* 

Stavely. What luxury, what truly classic enjoyment, 
But it is like my friend. The noble Wentworth always 
had a soul for the great men — it is hardly impiety to call 
them the gods — who made the Augustan age a proverb 
to ages yet unborn. 

Wentworth. And you, Stavely, how has time passed 
with you ? 

Stavely. As the sand passes the hour-glass, with a 
slow but sure tendency to reach — at last — the end. 

Wentworth. What! Still as melancholy as ever? 
Still that strange but good-hearted idealist I knew at 
college. 

Stavely. No ! Wentworth, I am not now an idealist. 

Pliny, as the classical student will be aware, was buried in the 
ashes of Vesuvius during an eruption. The mountain which was then 
his tomb, has since become his monument. 



SCENE FROM "CREDIT." SI 

I was, I confess it. But I have read Hobbes, and 
become convinced of my error. Do you recollect that 
beautiful passage, by-the-bye, in the third chapter ? 

Wentwortk. I do ; and I have often dwelt upon it ; 
often wished that Stavely might see it, and that Stavely 
might become a convert to its doctrine. 

Stavely. And Stavely is a convert, ay, a zealous one ; 
for your apostate is always more enthusiastic than your 
born bigot. Did you never observe that in nature the 
tide ebbs faster than it flows ; the fruit goes to nothing 
much more rapidly than it came to something ; the bird 
returns to its nest with a fleeter wing than it quitted it ; 
and the horse that leaves the stable with a sluggish pace, 
will often gallop home again ? 

Wentwortk. I see you have studied nature with a keen 
eye. Believe me, it is the only book that really teaches. 
There is more to be learnt from one leaf of a tree, than 
fifty leaves of foolscap. 

Stavely. That depends upon how we read it. Some 
take a leaf in the hand, only to crush it. Some to steal 
from it its grateful odour. Some to mix its verdure 
with the garish flower ; but, alas ! how few— how very 
few — take a leaf as a thing to study — to peruse again 
and again— to put by at night, and to recur to it in the 
morning— to trace its smallest veins — its minutest vessels. 
That is indeed taking a leaf out of the book of nature. 
Wentwortk. So my friend has become a botanist ? 
Stavely {laughing). JSTo, no, not quite a botanist. 
Indeed the flowers I have paid attention to lately belong 
to Apollo rather than to the fragrant goddess who 
presides over the horticultural fetes nt Chiswick. Flora 
has been very secondary to the Muses. I have written 
a poem. 



82 SCENE FROM " CREDIT. ' 

Wentworth. A poem ! What pleasure the announce- 
ment affords me ! I always knew that Stavely, my 
friend, my companion, with his high and lofty imaginings, 
was not destined to remain mute and inglorious for ever. 
What pleasure Caroline will experience at the news ! 

Stavely. Caroline— yes— why— oh ! that is— I mean- 
No — I am sorry that you mentioned Caroline. 

Wentworth. And why should you be sorry ? Caroline 
is my sister. You are my friend. Why should we 
refrain from speaking of one whom both of us love ? 

Stavely. Why— ye— yes, that's very true, but Caroline 
has been accustomed to affluence. I am not rich. Caro- 
line receives adulation from the proud and nobly born. 
I am an humble member of the middle class. A gentle- 
man, it is true, but one of the gentlemen of nature— not 
of the " Court Guide." Caroline may feel that pride is a 
passion, not a principle, and is therefore more sensitive to 
wounds. These are the only reasons that I had for 
wishing you not to speak of Caroline. 

Wentworth. Well, well, that 's all very well, but she is 
my sister ; and if the relationship is anything but a mere 
name, I can read her heart, as I interpret my own. 
Stavely, I am convinced that that girl loves you with an 
intensity that woman alone knows how to love with, and 
even she but once. I have no faith in your second 
affections ; they are like the flame that follows the 
lightning. It illuminates but it never warms. The first 
may scorch, may tear, may even destroy, but it hits, 
Stavely, and where it strikes first it remains to the last ; 
where it falls once it lies for ever. Come, let us go 

together and seek her. 

Stavely. Is she then in town— and— and— and— at 
hand. Is Caroline— I mean your sister— is she near us 



SCENE FROM " CREDIT.' S3 

at this moment — I mean now — that is, while I am 
speaking — is — is — Caroline ? 

Wentworth [dragging him off and laughing). Come, 
come, my good fellow, this confusion of yours will con- 
found me presently. If you don't make yourself better 
understood by Caroline than you are by me, with all my 
faith in her I should fear some misunderstanding between 
you [forcing him off). Come, come. 

Stave!?/ (as he is being dragged off). This is too much 
(a putt from Wentworth) — my bene — [another pull) — 
factor — my f — (another pull) my friend ! [Exeunt. 






A SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED 

TRAGEDY. 

THE STAGE REPRESENTS A TEA-GARDEN IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD 

OF LONDON. 



The following scene is from an unpublished tragedy, the authorship 
of which can he assigned to no living writer. It combines much of 
the philosophising spirit of one, a great deal of the mystery of a second, 
and all that terseness for which a third is so eminent. Who the first, 
second, and third are, to whom we allude, it would not perhaps he deli- 
cate to indicate. We must leave the reader to come to a conclusion, 
which he is sure to do if he reads the following concluding portion of 
this little work. 



Enter Rinaldo, disguised as a Waiter. 

Rinaldo (musing). It must be — no, it mustn't — yes, 
it must, 
Though " must ' ' might after all be only " may ; ' 
But " may ' and " must ' ' are very much alike, 
And after all what " must ' be " may ' be too. 
Onwards I drag my miserable life, 
My large estates in Italy are sold, 
My title to a Marquisate is lost, 
My wife and children I have left behind, 
My creditors have sought for me in vain, 
While I — but 'tis no matter — I am here. 



A SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY. 85 

Enter Jenkins at the hack of the Stage. 

Jenkins. Waiter — a glass of gin-and-water, hot ! 
Bin-aido (not seeing him). Alas — my native land ! Thy 
limpid streams — 
Thy marble palaces — thy verdant vales : 
Thy laughing rivers, thy sequestered groves — 
Thy lofty mountains — thy delightful slopes — 
Thy hills, thy pine-apples, thy — 

Jenkins (striking him on the hack). Hollo ! Waiter ! 
Binaldo (seizing him by the throat). Caitiff ! If thou 
hadst known the ancient honour 
That, starlike, deck'd the old ancestral line 
I To which Rinaldo owes his proud descent, 
Thou wouldst not dare — 

[Recollecting himself, and releasing Jenkins. 
Excuse me, sir, your orders < 
Jenkins. I ordered gin-and- water. 
Binaldo (hurriedly). Cold without \ 

Jenkins. Warm with — 

Rinaldo (musing). 

Ay, it is better warm than cold. 
Jenkins. I did not ask thee which was better, sirrah. 
I only bid thee bring me what I wish'd. 

Rinaldo (with much emotion). 
Behold that tree ! it hath a goodly air, 
And seems to tower in native majesty 
Towards the very sky, as if 'twould clutch 
Within its branches even heaven itself. 
While ever and anon the light-winged bird 



86 A SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY. 

Darts from the vaulted dome of azure blue, 

And, like a thing of light and loveliness, 

Descends at last upon the withered branch 

Of that old tree — and makes its humble home 

In a mere common nest of casual straw, 

Lined with the fleecy treasures left behind 

By foolish sheep, in browsing near a hedge. 

[A long pause. 

Jenkins. Proceed ! Your story interests me much. 

Rinaldo. It is no story — it is bitter truth ; 
For truth is bitter, call it what you will ; 
And in its bitterness there is a taste 
Which years of after-sweetness can't wash out. 
Hast tasted bitterness ? 

Jenkins. Waiter ! I should think so ! 

Rinaldo. " Waiter" — thou hast touched a hundred 
thousand chords 
Within my bosom. Strained them all at once, 
And with the discord almost cracked my heart. 

Jenkins. Be calm — 

Rinaldo (laughing hysterically). 

Be calm ! I think you said " be calm." 
Go ask the avalanche, just as it falls, 
To think it over, and continue fixed. 
Bid the wild wave restrain its violence, 
And lie quite flat upon the boundless sea. 
Demand of the loud thunder, when it roars, 
To be so good as just to hold its tongue. 
Entreat the vivid lightning not to flash. — 
When such requests you 've regularly made, 
And they Ve been every one attended to, 
Then, if you come and ask me — 1 11 be calm. 






A SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY. 



8' 



Jenkins. Will you ? 

Binaldo. As Heaven 's my witness, sir, I will ! 

Jenkins. But now the gin-and-water — 
Binaldo. You are right. 

More gin-and-water must be drunk to-night. [Exeunt. 



THE END. 




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